


Stardust

by 2wright



Series: Grey Wolf [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Cameos, Character Study, Drabble Collection, F/M, Female My Unit | Byleth, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Good Parent Jeralt Reus Eisner, Humor, I need more dad Jeralt and daughter byleth, More background on Byleth, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot Collection, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Shorts, a fifth route?, dad jeralt, outlet for my fire emblem three houses love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2020-10-06 23:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20515373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2wright/pseuds/2wright
Summary: She had rehearsed it to perfection."Hello... I am your new professor. My name is Byleth... Byleth Eisner. It is... a pleasure to make your acquaintance."But the silence made her wonder if she did the proper thing. She looked to the house leader in the crowd, hoping they’d help her determine the atmosphere to her greeting, but she was only met with the same astonishment etched into the faces of many others.Within the depths of her mind, she heard the girl chuckle."My my my... this is going to be quite amusing."





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this serves as an outlet for my Fire Emblem Three Houses adoration while I exercise writing once again.  
A series of shorts revolving around my vision of Byleth to be as she teaches the students, learns from them, and grows to love them.

“… What?”

In all the years he raised his child, all the steppingstones he’s witnessed and participated in with her, there were seldom few (if any) moments he could recall seeing his daughter so visibly caught by surprise.

It was subtle reaction. A few blinks, eyes widening to shift her neutral gaze into one of slightly keener inspection of the lady before her. It wouldn’t be interpreted as anything but abstract at most, but for someone like Byleth, it was a jaw dropping to the floor.

“They want you to teach.” It would’ve been amusing to reiterate, if the situation didn’t send another churning sense of anxiety in his gut.

“…” Another blink. She must truly be dumbfounded. He couldn’t blame her. This whole situation was unsettling with the amount of ambiguity buried beneath the civility of this place, blanketing the archbishop. No matter how beneficial it could be to finally have a place to settle with a financially secure position as a part of the monastery, convenience of it all would surely cause some suspicion to brew within Byleth. She was, by nature, an inquisitive person albeit an enigmatic one who sought answers more by deduction than anything else. She was like her mother in that sense.

He wished he could divulge more to her, give her answers to the questions she so clearly asked with her steady, now unblinking gaze. But the ancient stone walls of Garreg Mach had ears, all of which pipelined to Rhea. They had to tread cautiously here, especially under the watchful, borderline deviant scrutiny of that woman’s pale green gaze.

“…You are to rejoin the Knights of Seiros.”

It was not a question, but he gave her a nod, nonetheless.

“and I am to be a teacher.” She deadpanned, and he fought the urge to chuckle at the words left unspoken in that statement.

While his employment position made sense, being a mercenary, a renown figure, “the Blade Breaker”, why was she assigned to be a professor? To stand before youths, expected to grade papers, critique them, _nurture _them? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? She wasn’t qualified. She didn’t hail from any sort of elite academy. Her education was built on libraries, traveling, and personal experiences. The closest things she had to teachers were him, some of his mercenary hires, and friendly travelers who crossed paths with their band that were willing to spare some time to share their wisdom.

There was more to it than just her turmoil than her lack of formal qualification. Under her aloof countenance, his daughter was rather… socially difficult to say the least. Although, she tried her best to be adaptable to whatever situations they came across during their travels. Being mercenaries, living life constantly in motion required such; adjusting to transitions, changes, and diversity was essential. That included having a fundamental understanding of social norms and cultures. Byleth was no stranger to that, but to _willingly_ interact with people on any other basis aside from expediency… Jeralt wondered if the fates have a strange sense of humor.

His daughter was capable, quick to learn and to retain what she learned to compensate for whatever she believed she lacked; but a thoroughbred Pegasus, no matter stellar its temperament and form would not be a strong swimmer. As wyverns weren’t meant to be in foot races, and fish weren’t meant to live out of water, he wondered with no little amount of trepidation if Byleth was not meant for an ordinary way of living as this one.

Being a professor at this place meant being sociable, talking with not only students but staff, eating meals at a table in a crowd, having a schedule and a routine that did not prioritize the battle-ready lifestyle they had always known. It meant being _approachable_. Even in her infancy, that word had not been associated with Byleth. She was often too quiet, too taciturn- bearing a deep rooted, rather unnatural, silence that would make others shift in discomfort, and when she did speak whatever was in that bottomless mind of hers, she tended to be forthright with her distinctive opinions with a degree of detachment that had been considered offensive by many. The latter was likely a trait inherited from him. At least that was what his late wife would have said. 

She never did idle chit chat, ask shallow questions just for the sake of being civil, smile or wave for people passing by to come off as pleasant, listen to gossip and validate another’s opinion out of convenience and amiability. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t a lost cause, but Byleth was and had always been a bit different from the rest. Never truly bound by anything, least of all, norms that she would see as inconvenient.

It made her unnerving. It branded her as an outsider forced to bear the same discrimination as those who hailed from Almyra or Duscur, no matter what she did or did not do.

From face value, it was hard to tell if it ever truly bothered her (it bothered him). When asked, she blinked in the way she did just now, perplexed in her own way.

_ “… Is it supposed to bother me?” She asked, voice soft but flat._

_ His heart clenched, not in sorrow but in unease. With eyes too big for her cherub face, she looked to him with that corpse-like gaze._

_The girl had her mother’s eyes. _ _It was wicked, but the mournful widower within him wondered. _

_Did his love's eyes hold that same vacancy when she died? _

It seemed so impossible that his late wife, a beloved woman who danced beneath the midmorning light, lied in wildflowers, and hummed merry tunes while tending to the garden, would birth a child void of expression. No peals of laughter over the drunken comedy his mercenaries would make on campfire nights, no tears or sniffles over bloody, bruised knees or cruel taunts from village children.

Naught but piercing, pensive stares within a stony countenance.

_“Do you regret having me?” He couldn’t tell if it was a question born from pain or curiosity. Not when she asked with that eerie calmness._

_“No, kid it isn’t that.”_

_“But father, you are afraid of me.”_

_“Byleth…”_

_She turned away from him and stared out at the window with that same, perpetually vacant expression._

_“Why else would you leave?”_

Raising Byleth had its difficulties. He had struggled as a warrior turned widower and single father, to care for a child as peculiar as she- let alone care for a child at all. But seeing her hold her own in this world made it worth it. 

She had grown up surprisingly well despite the conditions. Life on the road hadn’t always been pleasant. There had been months where they’d scrape by down to the last coin until the next job came. Times where he questioned his worth as a father when he saw the blood spurt from a man’s sliced throat and spatter crimson droplets against her pale skin.

But by some miracle, she turned out better than he feared. Some soldiers praised him for it, for raising such a capable woman whose brilliance on the battlefield saved their lives. It was an undeserved praise in his eyes; a praise given to those blinded and deceived, thinking her empty expression constituted an empty head and an empty heart as if she were some puppet or pet.

She tried and polished herself so much for his sake… always for his sake.

He was proud of her, but that did not mean he worried less.

He wanted to sigh and maybe have a tankard of ale or two. For Alois to open his damn mouth and all but roar that Byleth as some exceptionally capable and perfect as a replacement instructor would have been downright hilarious if it weren’t so irritating. The loudmouth idiot practically shoved his child into a dark den of goddess knows what perils that haunted this cesspool of secrets hidden beneath the reverence. Coming back to Garreg Mach was the last thing Jeralt wanted to do and perhaps the last place he wanted Byleth to be.

However, it was inevitable. There was little use in thinking about the alternatives he could have taken. They were here now, and it was unlikely he could weasel them out of Rhea’s grasp once more. (Maybe if he burned the cathedral). He did what he could do with the minute foresight he had, preparing her in the few ways he knew would help her survive. She was clever enough now to hold her own, keen enough to sense there was something amiss about this place, about Rhea. It was a wrongness well concealed by the devotion of the popular mass, lying dormant and in wait.

A part of him wished to toss her onto his horse and whisk her far away, but it would solve nothing. The cycle of isolation would repeat, wherever they began anew. At some point, there was going to be an irreversible price. Rhea's warning haunted him.

_“Lady Rhea…” He wasn’t proud of it, but Jeralt almost pleaded._

_ If there was anything his time away from this place had done to his view of the woman, it was cementing the fear. Those eyes of hers were glowing, radiating with unspoken authority yet so cold and piercing. Like the frigid rivers of the north, those crystalline eyes threatened to pull him under the current and keep him until he was frozen and blued. _

_“Do you think the alternative will be any better?” She asked so sweetly, so warmly… belying the threat pulsating through those words. It was nauseating. Alarm bells were ringing in his head._

_“She won’t accept it without reason.”_

_“You can convince her, Jeralt. You are her father.”_

_“Can I?” He couldn’t resist the scoff. Rhea did not know his daughter, the stubbornness she was capable of with her choices. One needed to exercise a certain degree of rhetoric to truly, wholly persuade Byleth. Without a doubt, even if he were involved in this proposition, Byleth would take it with more than a barrel of wariness._

_ “I cannot even convince myself.” _

_“Then allow me to convince you.” By some sheer will, Jeralt refrained from reaching for his dagger. _

_Eyes closed, she dipped her chin. There were a few heartbeats of silence. Then she spoke aloud the thoughts that dwelled within. _

_“The alternative is to have you teach and her remain by your side as an adjutant. But she will be required to, in ways, join with the Knights of Seiros, to adopt the position you would take while you adopt hers. But you and I both know, no matter how sensible it seems to utilize her finer skills as a warrior, that path will not do her better than this one.”_

_With every word resonating through the empty chamber, it grew colder._

_“You’ve wondered or more specifically… you’ve feared for her, have you not? You may have done your best as a father, but a mercenary?.. Do you expect her to walk that isolated path for the rest of her life? For it to foster compassion? Kindness? For it to raise the humanity that resides within? You know it will only cause the cold within her to fester until it eats away at any effort to form any bond. _ _Inevitably_ _, it will make you more of a stranger to your daughter." Her words were like whetstones, sharpening the blade she would not hesitate to wield should he not concede._

_“Would not being here, among the people, students of the distinguished academy, be better? What’s to say that while she shares the wisdom within her precious thoughts, she will gain something precious in return.”_

_“And you believe she needs such things? And such things are only found **here**?” He was never one for politics and word games, but he played along. He had to. _

_“These things are a gift, my friend.” She all but tittered in a poor attempt to lighten the mood. “One that should not be so flippantly rejected. Do you not wish to see your daughter blossom into something more than the efficient killer I hear she is rumored to be?” _

_That question wouldn’t have been an issue if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did. If her mother was alive… _

_How he wished to spit out these words. Even after all these years, the frustration swelled within him but as quickly as it came, it dispersed under the heavy weight of defeat. _

_Jeralt released a sigh. “Will you not let us leave?” _

_“You know the answer already, my dear friend. I gave you only **one** other alternative.”_

He had to admit, although it left a bitter taste in his mouth, there was truth to Rhea's words. To continue the living the mercenary way…. Jeralt feared it led Byleth towards a desolate path of existing but not quite living the way he knew her mother gave her life for her to. His daughter deserved something more. He would even argue she was destined for it. Perhaps being here, at this monastery, was a blessing rather than a stroke of bad luck. Or at the very least, the lesser of two evils. 

So, it was with bittersweet pride that he watched her present herself before Rhea with a bow and a simple but meticulous greeting done with such grace, even Seteth looked twice despite his distrust while Rhea nearly flushed in pleasure.

Thank the goddess that entertainment troupe years ago took time to school her in etiquette. Her learned sense of decorum and poise was a powerful tool, one that she would need if she were to roam these halls. But still bittersweet… When she was given her cursory lessons in propriety, she made use of it to forge a barrier between her and others…

even at times him. 

Jeralt hoped, that if their time here could bear any fruit, it would be for her to flourish as a person not just some sell sword with a frightening title. She had the potential to, as Rhea once stated (much to his ire). Byleth was resilient like that, refusing to break when the weight of change was placed on her, no matter how heavy it could be. She never ceased to surprise him so perhaps she’ll do so again. He could only hope.

With that silent hope, he sighed and rested a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Just think of this as another job. A long term one.”

“You don’t like it here.”

Another statement and not a question. This child of his was too sharp for her own good, sometimes too direct.

“I have my reservations about this place. In time, I’ll share with you what I know.”

“…”

“You’ll be fine. We’ve handled worse things.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Of course. I’ll have an office here on the second floor.” He responded in a heartbeat. It hurt how she asked him these seemingly mundane questions, as if she didn’t expect him to be present in her life out of his own volition.

“Alright.”

It wasn’t long before they were met with another instructor. He refrained from chuckling when he heard a faint, short sigh from her when the woman, Manuela, began eying him as a fox would eye a piece of meat. He then left her, not without a hushed warning about Rhea. Over his rotting corpse will he let his only child walk blindly about this place without caution for whatever plot laid dormant here with jaws wide open, ready and waiting to devour her. 

.

* * *

.

A crest scholar and professor; a songstress, physician, and a professor… These two people were confident in their field and their place within these walls. They looked like lively people in their own way, like real professors who could be kind and resourceful to their students.

Meanwhile, what was she? A young mercenary with a menacing title, now also a professor. The contrast was made ever more blatant by her pragmatic attire: dark clothes, belts and straps for securing weapons and tools for survival, weathered leathers, wrought iron armor thin and sparse enough to maintain dexterity while protecting vital points of her body all curtained a traveling cloak that has been mended more times than she’s been wounded.

She looked a bit woebegone… out of place at best, standing next to these two who donned themselves in garb befitting of educators (maybe not Manuela… She resembled more of an entertainer).

Perhaps she should have taken some time to swat off the fine layer of dust and dirt from her boots and trousers, but everything had happened so quickly.

Waking up one day after another befuddling dream of a child who sat upon an ancient throne, finding herself in a skirmish to rescue what appeared to be a trio of unfortunate young nobles apprehended by bandits led by some degenerate, then almost getting cleaved by the said degenerate only to find that the child in her dreams could defy the laws of time by turning it back and giving her the second chance she didn’t realize she truly wanted… Now she was here. After some obnoxiously loud man who seemed familiar with her father all but dragged him towards the monastery, leaving her to follow, awkward and uncomfortable with the attention from the nobles accompanying her pace… All of whom happen to be heirs that would one day rule Fodlan.

Now, she was being requested (forced) to teach these important figures and their peers, specifically a house of them. She would sigh if it were in her nature, as she made her way down the stairs of the second floor, having been given a bit of reprieve from the stifling sense of scrutiny directed her way by the monks and other faculty as she went to follow up on her latest task given by the archbishop.

Good grief… she just wanted a bath, a cup of tea, and a nap. At most, she would have wanted to explore a bit of the monastery, read more of their books, before seeking the classes she’d have to instruct. If the archbishop was as kind and gracious as these people say she is, perhaps the woman would spare her some time before she chose a house to get herself clean and a bit settled. It would be a merciful change after the holy woman’s stiff advisor begrudgingly ordered her to greet the ones who would be her students in the foreseeable future.

Upon seeing the distant yard where the students gathered around their designated houses, walking, talking, and laughing among one another, she could already see some curious eyes dart towards her, already predict the whispers that would come her way later. She seriously contemplated a retreat. To pivot on her heel and walk away from this… unknown.

How long has it been since she tried to be a part of an environment like this? She couldn’t clearly recall. Only hazy memories of a childhood watching other children skirt away from the strange child…

_“She’s heartless.”_

_"Made of stone."_

_“Cursed, that girl is.”_

_“Maybe a ghost?”_

_“A demon.”_

“Meow”

The mewling sound reeled her away from the fog of thought, just as she was on the cusp of deciding to take a coward’s way out.

She looked down, meeting a pair of large, amber eyes.

.

_

.

The mercenary girl was full of surprises. One moment, she had been staring at the courtyard, her eyes giving nothing away yet clearly analyzing _something_, stoking his ever growing curiosity at what went on in that mind of hers after her imposing first impression in that evening skirmish, then he finds her squatting down at the high pitched call of a young calico cat.

How disarming. He’d daresay it was even cute. She presented her hand to the cat, and it sniffed at her fingers and the fingerless gloves connected to her arm greaves before proceeding to nuzzle her palm, demanding some affection. He expected someone like her to maaaybe humor the cat with a pat or two before standing up to face the task at hand, but she remained there, attentive to the purring bundle, scratching behind its ear, stroking its back until the cat rolled, exposing its belly and proceeded to playfully bat her hand. Midnight blue hair veiled whatever expression might have been written on her face, but the movement of her fingers as they indulged the feline indicated amusement.

A shame. His dark brow curved upward as he wondered what sort of smile she would have- if she was capable of smiling. He recalled her countenance not too long ago. Quite frankly, a theater mask had more personality than her face did. Even when she went through the bandits like fire burning through paper, she looked so barren. A fine porcelain doll with her pretty face, bearing nothing but neutrality in its pallor. In the dim moonlight, those eyes reminded him of the bottomless abyss he would see when staring into the waters of the open sea on those eerily calm but cloudy days.

She seemed so different from himself. He who maintained a near-perpetual upward curve to his lips to present “the smile of a schemer” as an uptight Adrestian Empress-to-be would say. But Claude von Reigan wondered, like many who spotted her, was she all that different under the stoicism? In a place where every smile, greeting, and gesture was burdened by a secret, how many lied underneath her visage?

She had the face of someone with calm intellect, comely enough to deceive the speed in which she snapped that bandit’s burly neck that evening… with those very same hands currently amusing a spry little calico.

_The two bandits came out of the briar, cloaked in black, dagger in hand. Scouts perhaps, thinking their youth and her gender would make them easy pickings._

_ He hadn’t even stepped back before blood spilled and the dagger fell to the earth, the thief’s hand severed clean. _

_The victim fell, unable to scream in agony as her elbow struck his throat before her dagger sank its gleaming fang into the flesh just above his knee. The second, although unmaimed, was not spared his life. As fast as the first fell to her mercy, the other followed but without the same fortune. He was struck in the gut by her metal capped knee before her arms came forth and like a snake coiling on a rat, wrapped around his neck. _

_ A muffled snap. _

_He couldn’t resist flinching. Those deceptively dainty looking arms all but yanked the man’s head by the hair and chin, leaving him twitching with his head at a repulsively wrong angle. He wasn’t the only one who had a chill coursing through his veins. Dimitri swallowed hard while Edelgard’s fair skin blanched further to a sickly hue. It was not as if death were new to them, but to see another's life snuffed out so quickly and anticlimactically..._

_The air slowly stank of blood and urine as the remaining bandit pissed himself, tearful and wheezing as his spare hand clutched his bruised throat._

_He had to wonder, though his curiosity felt morbid, what sort of face she made as she turned and stared down upon the bandit. _

_What sort of gaze could this fair wraith conjure to make a man look as though he stared upon an incarnation of death?_

_“How many of you are there?” Her voice was as indifferent as her face had been. _

_Claude almost felt pity for the thief as he gasped and coughed. Her blow must have crushed his voice. It almost seemed cruel, how she stole the man’s voice then expected him to answer. _

_ “Nod or shake your head. You need not speak to tell me what I wish to know. Understand?” A tone void of aggression or veiled threats, yet unquestionable in its authority. It summoned a frantic nod. _

_ “Thank you.” He would have laughed at the politeness, if his own voice wasn’t caught in his throat._

_ “A dozen? No... more?... Less?... I see.”_

To his surprise, she spared him after that quick interrogation, allowed him to scamper off, clutching the bleeding stump on what was left of his wrist. Was it out of mercy or calculation? Send him as a silent warning to the rest of his band, to stir fear and indecision in order to make them easier pickings. Claude believed it was the latter back then. Mercy for broken enemies did not seem to exist in those eyes.

.

_

.

Dimitri folded his arms and stared. His retainer followed his eyes.

"Is that her? With the cat?"

Among felines, there were many different kinds. There were lions, those that roared, proud to show where and how they stood with strength. There were small cats, who hissed and bared their teeth and claws in warning or fright but still carried themselves with an air of dignity.

And then there were the far more enigmatic wildcats he only heard of in children’s tales, those that resided in foreign lands far from Faerghus. They carried themselves in silence and solitude, living their life in the shadows, giving little warning but a gleam in their eyes and the unsheathing of their claws before they pounced and sank their teeth into the neck of their unsuspecting prey. They were the most dangerous kind. The one you should never turn and show your back to, lest you wish for your head to be severed from your shoulders and your body torn open for the crows.

Some people were like cats, a variant of one out of the three. Initially, Dimitri thought it obvious that she was the latter of all three, but she seemed different now within the walls of this place. Not enough to defy his expectations, but enough to have him reevaluate that eerily blank exterior of hers while she spared some attention for a kitten at her heels. Her behavior was more normal, dare he say more human now, softening his initial wariness of her after their first encounter.

The sheer apathy she displayed while dispatching of those bandits, saving Edelgard, speaking in short, hushed tones with her father and almost monosyllabic in replying to their civility… beyond the marvel felt in seeing her raw talent, Dimitri felt disturbed. She was far too quiet for comfort... especially as someone who could throw a dagger into the eye of a man faster than Claude could knock an arrow to his bow, then wipe the gore from her blade without sparing the victim a second glance.

She did not seem like someone who would take a teaching position here let alone be warm or cordial to anyone perhaps aside from her father. But if Archbishop Rhea thought her qualified enough to hire her, and she had the heart to humor a little feline… surely, she couldn’t be terrible.

It was possible that she could even be invaluable. The child of Jeralt the Blade Breaker, a living legend. She had enough skill and experience to maintain an exemplary, calculated approach to ridding those bandits despite being outnumbered and with so little time to spare for preparation. Her control of the situation had been hypnotic. Exuding enough surety to have three royal heirs follow and execute a strategy so smoothly was no small feat. She could be a wealth of information and strength.

While the other instructors were by no means, incompetent, Dimtri had to admit there was something a bit lackluster at times with the content of their lessons. History and theory, science and magic, arts and standard politics were all valid subjects to study, however, for Faerghus, he needed more than textbook knowledge to right the wrongs that plagued the tumultuous kingdom.

It had only been one battle, more of a skirmish if anything, yet the way she directed the flow of the fight, positioned them to optimal vantage points, and immersed herself into the fray with the confidence of a veteran, she screamed of promise and potential, of triumph and fortitude. If he couldn’t have her ability employed into the ranks of his kingdom’s military, he could still gain something from her knowledge and experience.

_“Avoid the dry thickets but stay near the trees to the east. When you see the flames burn the thickets, you will see the enemies, strike while in the smoke but do not linger. I expect your companion, the archer, to keep the persistent ones from pursuing you if the flames do not. The girl can come with me.”_

_“What of you and Edelgard?”_

_“The bandits will scatter from the flame, far enough to avoid the heat but close enough to use the light to see in the dark. I will handle things from there. Whoever remains will be dealt with by my commander.”_

_She left no room for more question or doubt, as her monotonous voice stated this plan in rapid pace. He had been too stunned to nod or give her any form of indication that he understood. She merely blinked and regarded them a second longer before parting, with Edelgard hesitating before following her wake. It was a clear sign of indifference to whether or not they followed her orders, as though the cost of their possible defiance mattered less to her than the quality of her old iron blade._

_ Cold, heartless yet rather charismatic. He found it hard to disobey her. _

.

_

.

Edelgard found herself intrigued, nearly fascinated as Lindhart would be with new information on Crests, by the turn of events. It almost seemed too good to be true, too valuable a resource to waste, too great an opportunity to pass by. For that woman to hire that mercenary as a professor within these walls when it was clear there was little love, loyalty, or even familiarity for the Church of Seiros in the apathetic gaze of the woman claimed to be the only child of a legendary knight, Edelgard von Hresvelg had to stifle the well of hunger to swoop and claim the potential that entered the courtyard.

While she didn’t question why Rhea would want the Blade Breaker to return serving the church, his daughter was another story. It was clear the woman was trying to keep her close by having her hired not as another mercenary but as a professor. It defied standard rationale otherwise. Why else would she hire a sell sword who hardly looked a few years older than them as an instructor? Especially after her skills were clearly best served on the field.

It was as if she- Byleth was it?- was born for war, born to conquer against odds, wielding sword and magic as though they were mere extensions of her being. On that night, in the dark fields bathed in torchlight and flame conjured by her palm, she stood above the corpses of the first bandits who fell victim to her strategy.

_ She stood like a phantom born from the cinders, back facing them as she scoured the dark field for more of their apprehenders, the first few already victims at her feet with hollow eyes frozen in shock- the last emotion they felt before their swift death. By the time Edelgard dispatched of one with the assistance of her schoolmates, three were already felled by the woman’s commonplace sword. _

_ She turned. The flickering reflection of fire light seemed to be the only source that brought some life into those listless eyes. And when those eyes met hers… She could only describe the feeling as phantom hands grasping her soul. _

_ “Are you alright?”_

_ Words that usually were spoken out of concern, when they slipped from her lips, they only sounded like a challenge, a demand to prove the princess worthy of this wraith’s loyalty in the fray. _

She tried to adopt a more critical look at the woman since then, despite having been saved by her. It was too sudden of a factor for the archbishop to employ the two mercenaries no matter how incredible their prowess was. To make the girl an instructor, despite her young age, was stranger. Why her? The girl hardly seemed to warm up to the deceptive peace smothering this place. If anything, she looked wary of it when someone of more naivety would have been in awe in her position.

And her father, the Blade Breaker, when he raised his head and met eyes with the archbishop standing on that balcony… Fondness was not what Edelgard would use to describe his expression. Yet sources tell her he reaccepted his position in the Knights of Seiros, and his child was hired as an instructor.

Unless it was the other way around. Unless Rhea hired the woman as a professor to keep her close, thus by default, keep Jeralt by her side. A hostage situation underneath the harmonious agreement. It made more sense, and she did not put it above that woman to resort to such means. For a warrior of Jeralt’s caliber to leave Rhea’s grasp unscathed, the archbishop would not hesitate to hold him tighter by holding his only family member hostage.

If that was the case, it was all the more imperative for her to gain this Byleth’s allegiance. They could have a common enemy, exchange resources and power within these walls. Her keenness for this confused her retainer. On the surface, the mercenary didn’t appear as much aside from being some commoner with a penchant for fighting and… Petting cats. But even he was a bit intrigued, his interest piqued by Edelgard’s own at Rhea’s choices and the timing of it all.

* * *

“Hm. I suppose it’s time for you to take charge of one of our three houses of students.”

.

.

* * *

They started gathering around the her, some bashful and fidgety in their uncertainty, others mildly curious if not aloof after their discovery that this woman, some young sell sword, was to be their professor. She quickly smothered the urge to fold her arms into herself, to clench her hands onto her new clothes. It would wrinkle the fine textile, ruining the efforts taken to look presentable before her new… students. She took a breath, using the smell of rosemary from her bath to ease her hidden nerves into submission. It wouldn’t be becoming for a professor to be as nervous as her students. Especially when she had to prove she was worthy to be called Professor, a title already challenged by her questionable age and lack of background.

_"Keep your back straight! I won’t have you sullying my existence within you by being spineless. This seems to be a place where names and titles mean everything, give these young mortals yours with dignity."_

For a girl who spent gods know how long sleeping away, she was demanding.

_“I’m the reason you’re not a corpse with an axe lodged into you. I have a right to be demanding. Now… present yourself properly..” _Her voice became drawled, drowsy again._ “Ugh, your thoughts are exhausting and that bath… so sleepy.”_

The inner girl’s odd fatigue aside, she had a point. Properly. Yes. For now, perhaps it was best to follow with her input. She didn’t want to waste her father’s efforts to warm her to this role.

He had made a rather frivolous purchase to commemorate it, but she kept silent when he presented the thick, twine bound parcel. There was something hard wrapped within the cushions of cloth:

_“Some of those soaps and oils you like and tea. There are a few clothes in there too, but those are from the Church. Consider it an employment gift. You can’t go into class looking ready for a fight, kid.” He smirked then, pleased at her widened gaze when he all but tossed his gift at her. Her reflexes salvaged any blunder from being caught by surprise, clutching the parcel to her chest. _

_“You didn’t have to.” She muttered, eyes darting away in subtle chagrin. It wasn’t an entirely alien thing for her father to go out of his way to buy her treats, but it was still seldom done. They weren’t in poverty by any means, but they were never wealthy. Any extra coin earned was better invested into weapons, armors, practical equipment, etc. Even when he tried to purchase something solely for her own pleasure, Byleth would insistently deny it. The last purchase he made personally for her was her custom mantle, something she wore and took care of almost religiously. _

_ He couldn’t help but chuckle. “It was either this, a dress, or that armored teddy bear. Can’t your old man spoil you once in a while?” _

_Afterwards, alone in her new quarters, she stood before the mirror, now clean of grime and dirt from their travels, the flush from the bath had faded, leaving a pleasant glow on her skin. For the umpteenth time, she adjusted and refastened the buttons on her cuffs. How long has it been since she’s worn fitted cuffs? The clothes felt tailored, further emphasizing their higher than average cost. Fine white fabric, collared high, she buttoned it all the way up to her neck, concealing the scars lying underneath from close calls and mishaps. The Spring breeze here was a bit chillier than their previous settlement due to the higher altitude. Today in particular, it was cold enough to forgo her more exposing attire and don the Academy’s white blouse. _

_A buckled, leather girdle spanning a hand’s width at her waist, helped keep the shirt tucked in her pants and her dark, half skirt to her hips. It brushed against the back of her calves, providing some decorum to her well-worn riding pants. The belt strapped with the girdle served to secure a dagger if need be. _

_It was her prized throwing knife, sheathed with a blued casing. She may now no longer be a mercenary by formal occupation, but the blade had sentimental value and it served to warn those who had ill intentions to think twice. _

_With that thought, she also secured and hid a few more knives onto her attire. It never hurt to be well prepared._

_ There was sense of approval from the entity within her. _

_“Wyverns show their teeth and talons but rarely their flame. Your father warned you. This place, that woman… No matter how pleasant it all is, it’s best to heed his caution.”_

_Adjusting the buckles on her waist one more time, she grabbed one of her better, more favored cloaks to finish her appearance, a black mantle with some armored plating the collar and shoulders and embroidery emulating the pattern of her father’s attire. For a moment, she found herself wishing for a mirror of some sort. Granted, she never really had a sense of vanity much less self-consciousness on her appearance before; their way of life prohibited such mentality unless one wished to die early. _

_But that was before, when she was employed to be a killer not an educator._

_One of her colleagues was thankfully an outspoken individual in the matter of vanity and presentation. Manuela’s eyes surveyed her appearance from head to toe, pausing her greeting before voicing her approval. _

_“My my, don’t you look charming~. Simple but polished. It suits you. A shame your father isn’t adopting a similar fashion, but I can still admire ruggedly handsome looks.”_

_Aside from the discomfort at the woman’s lust for her father, Byleth felt relieved. The outfit seemed to flatter her. Hopefully it made her look more like a refined instructor and less like a sell sword._

_ And at this rate, she needed all the help she could get to play the part. _

* * *

They met the young lady in the courtyard, just outside the classrooms. Eyes everywhere, all pointing towards her- even those who weren’t going to be formally assigned to her. It was expected for Jeritza to be the new house instructor. While the man wasn’t the most amicable, he was less of a stranger to the Academy.

A mercenary… it was not the most admirable occupation. Some would argue it lacked honor, a few steps above banditry but nothing compared to being knight. So inevitably, there were nudges and whispers in the crowd as they regarded her; a mix of wonder, disdain, and incredulity.

Then all fell hushed at the sound of her voice.

“Hello,”

Sunlight peaked through the shifting clouds, bathing the square in rich, warm light. Its radiance crowned her and brought forth an ocean hued sheen to her midnight locks. Those silken, layered strands stirred, combed by a gentle breeze sweeping through the monastery.

Her half skirt swayed as a dainty, booted foot, took a small step back- heel elevated from the ground. Her right arm rose to her chest as her left gently grasped the edge of her half skirt.

“I am your new professor...”

Knees bending ever so slightly, eyes now closed, she dipped her chin into a slow, delicately measured bow. The amount of elegance poured into that simple motion of standard etiquette hushed their very thoughts into silence.

“My name is Byleth… Byleth Eisner.”

Those eyes opened as the woman, Byleth Eisner, lifted herself from her gesture, allowing the sun to highlight the thick, curved lashes that decorated them. In the golden light, her eyes were the color of rich, royal violets that seemed to put the most polished jewel to shame.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

There was no smile in those cupid bow lips yet they were enthralled; no passion in her mellow voice yet the sincerity was oddly undeniable; not even a flush of pink in those fair cheeks yet they found themselves feeling warmed.

The rumors had them anticipating a fearsome warrior, perhaps with a booming voice and a burly form. Some of them pictured a face weathered by time and experience, with eyes that would glare with the telltale haunts of experiencing war. Others imagined a knight who carried themselves with confident, loud steps, armor polished to a meticulous sheen; another version of the gallant Lady Catherine. But in the end, rumors failed to do justice- as rumors are wont to do.

Had it been the darkness of the night? The tension of the skirmish? Or was it something in the now? Perhaps it was her new attire- now no longer screaming of battle readiness and combat prowess. Granted their house leader hadn’t downplayed the heroic events beforehand, but it was clear enough hadn’t been detailed to fully illustrate her.

She had been described as a life saver, powerful and practiced, and daunting. All good qualities, admirable ones aside from the latter, but those words weren’t enough.

How could it have been overlooked? Did they not glance twice at her?

The silence made her wonder if she did the proper thing. She looked to the house leader in the crowd, hoping they’d help her determine the situation, but she was only met with the same astonishment etched into the faces of many others.

_“My my my…. This is going to be quite amusing.”_

Sothis only chuckled at the prodding sense of confusion from her host.

_._

_._

_._

* * *

This sums up my vision of Byleth as a professor. Not to hate on her outfit or anything, but I always found it... impractical?

Here's [the link to the artist! ](https://twitter.com/Velahka/status/1144285202463612928)

<https://twitter.com/Velahka/status/1144285202463612928>


	2. Blue Lions: The First Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intro into the methodology of Byleth as she transitions from mercenary to professor, and the Blue Lions' experience of said woman's first lesson.

**Imperial Year 1175, Adrestian Territory, South of Fodlan**

The moon was full and the woods were quiet. It would have been a welcomed silence after the thundering ruckus of their last battle defending the port from a crew of Dagdan pirates. But in spring, fog would cover these parts, a pale miasma of eeriness only made worse by the tensions plaguing Adrestia with the Dagda and Brigid War. So, when the company found a place with enough concealment for a few unnoticed fires, Jeralt made quick work of barking out orders to set up camp. Some pitched tents, others tended to the steeds, but a select few were given the task of scouting the perimeter under the leadership of Jeralt’s very own.

“We’re going to take orders from Jeralt’s little girl? She’s what? 14?”

It was always the newer, fresh recruits that blatantly questioned these decisions. Especially after encountering the aforementioned daughter. She seemed shy, hardly the type to mingle in the comforts of a social campfire like most mercs did at this very moment.

Jeralt stood among his fighters as a tall, indomitable pillar. His daughter was more like the very fog that shadowed their camp. Close in presence yet faraway, never in grasp.

Majority of the mercenaries seldom questioned their leader’s orders. The longer you’ve lived under the command of the Blade Breaker, the less you question and doubt. But even a few of them seemed to shift nervously, further emboldening the outspoken new recruit’s doubts. He joined this company over the rest because of the Blade Breaker, not because of some small, blank-faced girl claimed to be his daughter.

“16. Ya gotta problem with that?”

His observation was misinterpreted. The mercenaries shifted nervously, not in agreement over his inquiry, but at the presence behind him who heard it.

“B-Brady, hey!” Another mercenary assigned to the scouting group stuttered, hoping to appease the tension.

Brady, one of Jeralt’s closest and perhaps toughest mercenaries, towered over the new recruit, staring him down like a wolf with their hackles raised. If the sight of the scarred man’s glare didn’t make him tuck his tail between his legs, the person standing beside him made him want to lie down and show his belly in submission.

There was little to no physical resemblance between Jeralt and his only child. Not in the slightest. Even in expressions. Yet there was something about the way she stared that cowed them as Jeralt’s glare and disapproval would have done.

By some mercy, Brady’s gruff voice tore his attention away from the marble-carved face. “Bringin the lil’ lady back from our lesson. Ya best be listenin to her if ya know what’s good for ya. I ain’t sayin it for her sake. I’m sayin it for all your sakes.”

His tone, oddly enough, sounded pitying more than menacing. Though, Brady perpetually sounded menacing with his thuggish, foreign dialect. 

The rough man gave a firm pat on the teen’s shoulder.

“Prep ‘em good and don’t slack on practice, ya hear?”

She gave him a nod.

.

.... 

.

Her orders had been clear. Scout with unlit torches in pairs. Unless they spotted a visible, clear threat that required more vision in the fog, under no circumstances were they to allowed to light their torch. With those instructions, she disappeared in the haze.

The initial doubt returned, now with frustration as the new recruit tripped over yet another root for the umpteenth time. The fog was thicker at their knees, making their patrol more of a pain in the arse than it would be if they had some light.

“She’s being petty, I swear. It’s because I called her a little girl.” He grumbled.

“Eh, Byleth doesn’t do petty.” His companion remarked.

“Doesn’t she? Over anything?” He stumbled over a rock this time, causing his toe to throb. Great. At least they were reaching a clearing of some sort. Fewer roots to trip over.

“Not over little things. If I remember… I’ve only seen her somewhat annoyed _once._” They shuddered at the sudden memory. “It was hard to tell, but Goddess, that incident had my limbs feel cold.”

“What happened?”

“Something that shouldn’t have happened if the idiot just-”

The gossip was cut short as he tripped yet again, this time over a rather jagged piece rock.

“Aurgh! That’s it!” Spitting out a blade of grass, he pushed himself off the ground into a squat and began fumbling for his flint and steel.

“Hey, w-what are you doing?”

“At this rate, we’re going to break an ankle if we can’t see through this Goddess damned fog.” He angled the small metal rod against the tip of the oiled torch.

“W-wait-”

Ignoring the sputtering protest, he struck a measured spark. Immediately the spark ignited a smoldering, slow growing light. Finally, some luck. Triumphant, he stood, torch in hand. His sentiments were not shared with his companion.

“YOU IDIOT! Remember our orders? Put the thing out!”

“Calm down before you make a scene! We’re scouting! It’s just a damn torch.” He hissed and looked around him, eyes adjusting quickly to the better light. “I can’t scout for shit if I keep tripping over every single r-that… is not a rock.”

No. What he tripped over this time hadn’t been a jagged rock. It had been a piece of armor, molded to fit an Adrestian Great Knight; who was without a doubt dead, considering the telltale remnants of pale, white bone peaking out from the metal plated torso.

Just a torso. No helm. Not even a skull or any spare limbs. Where were the limbs?

“Over there…” His companion, who had briefly gone silent in trepidation, pointed towards the distance now visible with the light.

Sure enough, there were rusted vambraces, shredded remnants of chainmail, and scattered, splintered bone still stuck in the limb. As if the great knight had been torn apart.

“… We should report back.” He was amazed by the surety of his own voice. Then again, if his panic, the gooseflesh rising over his body, and the chill crawling through his spine strangled his better senses, he wouldn’t be in this company ‘new recruit’ or not.

A rustle of leaves. Branches cracking and snapping apart. Something was coming.

And all at once, they smelled it. As the wind blew towards them, carrying the scent of the woods.

The smell of blood and rot.

Was it repulsion or fear that made his eyes water and bile rise up his throat? He couldn’t decipher it in that moment. But when he turned his eyes and torch towards the sound of breaking branches and the heavy gallop, he decided it was the latter.

He’s come across monsters before. From what he knew of the company, Sir Jeralt also occasionally picked up jobs of eradicating such beasts if the feral creatures began terrorizing town borders.

But there was something different about this one. A wrongness that made his mind scream but his throat clench.

Saliva, bloodied, almost black, leaked through the dagger-like teeth of its gaping maw. Its black fur was matted, uneven, and entirely missing from the right of the empty socket where its eye should have been, all the way to its shoulder. In its place, the patch of skin was charred, and from the fissures of the blackened flesh, the raw wounds oozed with the telltale signs of rot. It’s lone eye was glowing, and it wasn’t a reflection of the torch. The eye was glowing _red_.

‘Sick’ was not the right word to describe this giant wolf. It looked possessed.

And it was charging towards them.

... 

His memory of that night was a blurry concoction of terror, pain, and shame.

When he came to his senses, he was lying in the dirt, the agony of torn flesh and broken bone keeping him there. A shadow hovered over him, haloed by the silver light of the full moon. For a moment, he tried to scream, believing it to be the rabid beast, but only a garbled, rasping yelp managed to escape his throat.

“Don’t move.”

His pathetic excuse of a sound was silenced by the familiar voice- a voice he once found cold and dead now became a soothing beacon of relief.

“… Th-there… was… a monster…”

“I killed it.” A soft, pale green glow illuminated the shadow. Her gaze was lidded with calm, focused on arm-his arm.

The pain of resetting its broken bone must have brought him back. The searing agony of the fracture and mauled flesh was beginning to fade under a tingling numbness as the wound began knitting together.

“I need Brady to see to his side. It’s beyond my skill. Wil.”

“Y-yes ma’am?” His companion sounded shaken but alive.

“Can you carry him?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Had he been the only one wounded to this severity? How was that? Did Wil run off, leaving him for dead?

“There were stories of a demon in these parts. The children in our last camp sang of it.” Her voice quieted his wandering thoughts. “A maneater… who preyed only at night and upon those illuminated by fire’s light. Father had the campfire set knowing this. Our intent was to investigate, and at best, have him help kill whatever beast it was when it drew closer to the camp….

But then you lit your torch.”

The glow of faith magic faded. Once again, her fair face was obscured into shadow. But he could have sworn her eyes were glowing. Not red like the wolf but glowing like a demon of a wraith-like breed.

“Let this be a lesson. One that I won’t need to repeat.”

Her tone hadn’t changed. It never did. Yet, he felt cold with terror anew.

“My father’s orders and mine hold the same absolutes. I don’t care if you are not able to fathom the logic when they are given. I only expect you to follow them. Should you jeopardize your comrades with your defiance again and find yourself in this same position, in need of my aid, with only death as your alternative… I will think your life forfeit. Am I understood?”

Somehow, for a brief moment, he found his voice. And with it, he mustered a croak.

“… Yes ma’am.”

It was the most she’s ever spoken to him, and the last time she’s spoken in such lengths to him. He tried his best to keep it that way and remain true to his promise.

Later, he learned from Wil-who he apologized to in droves and received his apology with sympathy, that he witnessed Jeralt’s second-in-command annoyed only once. And that one time was over the same reason he bore an ugly scar on his side and arm.

However, the last defiant greenhorn hadn’t been given another chance to learn that lesson. The man died a painful death, succumbing to a poisoned wound while she stood near him- she still had her antidote in hand, having carefully rationed the sparse potion to her men. He had not listened, had underestimated the gravity of her command in the absence of her father, and for it, he and the men with him paid the price.

And she watched as he succumbed to the consequence, watched with the same heartless gaze she wore when she slew the beast and assessed his wounds.

He wasn't sure what part of that story sent shivers down his spine.

He wouldn't first nor would he be the last. But he followed Wil’s footsteps and implored the crucial lesson one had to learn when joining the Blade Breaker and his second, the Ashen Demon. 

* * *

. 

**Imperial Year 1180, Great Tree Moon, Garreg Mach Monastery **

The new professor looked well-adjusted to her roll despite it being her first week. She walked through the courtyard with a certain light-footed grace to her steps, swift and purposeful. The tail of her half skirt and mantle billowed with the motion. Silent, stoic, but undeniably poised. Surely, she must indeed be a prodigy of some sort to carry herself with such dignity despite it being likely that she was the youngest instructor to ever grace the halls of the monastery…

_“ Are we lost?”_

Lost would imply that she had no awareness of her surroundings. She was in the monastery, two hundred paces north from her quarters.

_“And where are we headed?”_

The rumble of her stomach should have served as an answer, unless the girl was incapable of feeling her physical condition.

_“It was a rhetorical question, you fool.” _Sothis retorted. _“I can hear and see what you do.”_

A disturbing concept that still set her on edge. It was complicated to fathom her thoughts on it. She was a private person more than the average individual would be. Her thoughts and her being were supposed to be her own, were they not? Yet here this girl was, no longer just a figment of her imagination, no longer just a slumbering figure in her dreams.

She ought to be questioning her sanity. Yet, somewhere deep within her, it was less agitating than it should be. She could even argue paradoxically that it felt… natural. 

The former figment of her dreams carried on her tirade. _“We’re supposed to be headed to the mess hall. So here’s a genuine query... WHERE is the mess hall.”_

…Perhaps she was marginally lost.

Sothis sighed.

_“I’m going to sleep.”_

___

“ Hey Mercie, is it just me or is this the third time our professor passed by?” Wearing a pout of concern, the young lady of House Dominic looked to her close friend.

“Oh dear. Annie, do you think she’s lost?”

Annette pondered for a moment as their eyes followed the quiet woman glide off and disappeared from the reception hall.

“Hmmm… She doesn’t look lost.”

_

Byleth nibbled at her meal- a piece of Duscur Bear jerky that had once been a part of her emergency rations for those less fortunate days where she and her father had to camp in places where food was scarce. It was stale and taut, but it sufficed in quelling the hunger while she pondered upon her first formal lecture soon to be held in two hours. She had forgone her hunt for the mess hall in favor of having a moment to think. The situation must be rattling enough for her to be so absentminded about navigating this place. Her thoughts needed to be set straight.

First lesson of class, with her specialization being battle tactics and combat. How was she supposed to approach this? Written evaluations, documented profiles, and word of mouth from the prince’s rather optimistic description of his classmates only told her so much. It was clear that some of them had combat experience, even direct experience in war. But how much, how well, and in what way?

There was also the factor of opinions. She was no stranger to wariness thrown her way. It was a given. Even she had her doubts. What was Rhea thinking, hiring someone so young? One of the students on her roster was barely a year younger than her while another was actually older.

_“If one can drown in thoughts, I’d be dead by now.” _Sothis grumbled.

She could almost see the grimace of the girl dwelling within her. For once, she felt some sympathy if not remorse for it. Her mind must be a chaotic place, running rampant with questions, thoughts, and concerns in one loud, cacophonous symphony born from inexperience in professorship.

It didn’t sit well with her to be this ill-prepared after living a life of constant vigilance. Speaking of ill, she half wondered if all of this was intentional. Considering how every time Seteth looked at her, he looked as though he were forced to drink a scalding, terrible tasting tea, she couldn’t help but wonder if he intended to weed her out by tossing her into the metaphorical ocean before teaching her how to swim… or at least stay afloat.

Then again, father said some things are best learned on the job.

They could have at least allowed her to audit a class, conceal her presence as an instructor for a week longer to allow her to do some reconnaissance and gain some bearing of this place before announcing her position to her chosen house. Speaking of her chosen house, she needed to speak with the house leader.

She let out a small breath after swallowing the last of her meager meal. There was little use in stewing frustration over her problem when it did nothing to rectify the situation. She had to invest her mind elsewhere.

Perhaps the situation could be pictured as a campaign of sorts.

_“A campaign… You’re educating them not fighting a war.” _Sothis scoffed.

In the years to come, would these students not be required to fight in wars? As young and doe eyed as some of them seemed, it was inevitable. The hiring rate for their mercenary company in the Faerghus territories told her enough. Years of turmoil after the loss of the king bred political instability, and in a monarchy, political instability created fragile, borderline destitute socioeconomic environments. It made for more bandits and invaders to cull and villagers to protect or- even in some incidents, subdue.

Her father had predominantly handled the business and relational aspect of the company, but when it came down to the battle where men and women were reduced to the living or the dead, the killer or the killed, Byleth helped take the reins.

Campaigns required several things, but simply put, one needed to:

Understand the objective, know their resources, and think ahead several plausible turns (or at least five days of the week in this case) before commencing execution.

Her objective was to prepare the students to take their place in a realm absent of mercy for those called to rise above the common man, to strengthen them with what she knew and understood of the world.

_“It’s menacing, when you think of it that way.” _The girl mused.

It was what it was, but the girl was right. She needed to streamline her thoughts and purpose into simpler, shorter terms for now.

There was to be a mock battle within this month with her father present to witness. Byleth would focus on winning it. With that in mind, there can only be so much done to strengthen her troops (students) in the short time span given to her. It would be far less complicated if her father’s mercenaries were allowed to participate in this mock battle-and far too easy. She needed to understand the extent of their combat ability.

As for her resources; she had her mind, the library’s collection, the faculty’s input, and…

.

“Dimitri,”

A splintering crack echoed through the corridor. The lance’s wooden head was left hanging by a pitiful fiber of wood.

The Prince of Faerghus would have squawked if he weren’t a noble trained to maintain some dignity. Unfortunately, the training lance in his grasp did not have the same constitution under the pressure of his surprise.

“P-professor! Please forgive me, I did not see you.”

By the goddess, was she an apparition? He spent not but one second to bend down and pick up the training equipment, only to stand back up and find an impassive former mercenary standing beside him.

“The fault is mine.” She remarked, sparing the broken lance a fleeting glance before returning that unblinking gaze back at him, pinning him in place. “My apologies for the inconvenience, but I was wondering if it’s possible to reserve the training facility for a lesson.”

“Oh, yes of course.” He felt a surge of excitement, eager to help the endeavor when it incorporated a physical excursion. “Simply ask the overseer in the training ground. When would you like to reserve?”

“Today.”

Surprise replaced excitement. “Today? It’s the first lesson…”

While it wasn’t heretical, it certainly wasn’t orthodox. He recalled first days with previous instructors to consist mostly of written placement exams and social activities to break the ice for newer additions to the house.

“I am aware.”

“I see…” There was nothing biting about her response, but those eyes… they made him feel naked. He shifted the supplies in his grasp and looked away as falsely seeming as if he were in thought. “Well, I will spread the word to the rest of the class while you speak with the overseer if it pleases you.”

A short nod followed by a ‘thank you’. Dimitri then half expected her to vanish into thin air, but she continued to look at him-or rather, look through him? He wasn’t sure.

“Professor…?”

“… Where is the training ground?”

_

Straight, north of the dormitory, beyond the tall doors. Dimitri departed as soon as he directed her on the right path in order to inform the rest of his house on the change of class setting.

Target boards on the far end of one wall, wooden mannequins on the opposite end, horizontal bars and what appeared to be a weight training station on another, and an assortment of equipment from weapons either blunted or made solely of wood. It was a large place, well supplied to train proficient fighters. One would think it a bit strange for a church to invest a significant sum of money in something like this, to have a renown system of soldiers at their disposal-one that her father used to be a part of. Were all religious orders this militant?

Her understanding of the Church was superficial at best, and she wondered if that had been done intentionally. Jeralt always seemed on edge whenever the village they settled in had a strong church presence. For towns rumored to be housing some Knights of Seiros, he had avoided them altogether. Her early years had been spent in the outskirts of Fodlan, near the coasts or the borders to the East in Alliance territory or South towards the Adrestian Empire, where the influence of the church lacked authority.

Sothis hummed. _“We now know he was once a part of this place… So he wasn’t just avoiding them as a wanted criminal would.”_

No… He had been running away.

_“Why though?”_

She couldn’t give a resolute answer. Jeralt was always tight lipped about his reasons when she asked- he was tight lipped about a lot of things regarding his past. But he never led her astray.

It still made her body tense with wariness. Her father wasn’t the type to run away from things except unpaid bar tabs.

The tension seemed to heighten her awareness of her surroundings. She felt the skin at her nape tingle and the hairs rise. Never one to disregard her senses, she shifted her hand behind her. Concealed under her cloak, fingers grasped the handle of the blade sheathed at the small of her back.

Head turned over the shoulder, blued eyes latched onto the silhouette standing in the shade of the pillar, beside the target boards.

“Are you here for class?”

A lapse of silence. Then a low voice spoke, “no”.

“Do you need something?”

Another ‘no’, but this time the figure came into the light. It was a pale man with long, light hair and cold eyes beneath a pale, porcelain mask.

He was Jeritza, the weapon’s instructor. She recalled meeting him briefly upon her arrival. His greeting had been blunt, choppy, and pragmatic-not that she had minded. She welcomed the candor in all of its inelegance, but this espionage attempt she did not welcome.

He regarded her with an air of scrutiny different from others. Seteth had been skeptical, some like Alois were fascinated, and Rhea, in all her serene smiles and regal propriety, she looked as though she sought something.

Jeritza… he evaluated her with a gaze she knew all too well. She has seen it in the battlefields, distinguishing veterans from novices. She has seen it in the wilds when predators sought rights over what they considered theirs, be it ownership over their food, territory, or their own survival.

It was appraisal, a clinical analysis void of personal vendetta, deciphering of whether the person before them was predator, prey, or competitor.

“You are training your students in combat today.”

“Not necessarily… I merely wish to understand them.”

“I see. Do you require my assistance?”

“No thank you.” She should have felt warmed at his offer, welcomed by the forthrightness that bordered rudeness for it was a manner that she also had.

Call it paranoia or readiness, but at this particular moment she merely felt wary.

It wasn’t common to meet people who reminded her of herself.

_“…and that bothers you?”_

Yes. There was a reason why she was feared among the mercenaries.

Sothis went silent, mulling over her words before sighing. Her host was an odd one.

“Ah! Professor!”

It was almost laughable in its contrast; how deceptively polite the content of the weapon instructor and new professor’s exchange had been, and how tangibly the tension between them snapped at the sound of a soft, soprano voice. Both pairs of frigidly blank eyes turned.

There near the entry way stood Seteth’s little sister with hair and eyes reminiscent of sea glass Byleth once saw on the shores near Derdriu.

A person of faint heart would have turned their heel and walked out of the grounds. Either the girl, Flayn, had more grit to her than what her petite appearance showed, or she was painfully oblivious to the tension between the two silent people.

She carried with her a woven basket blanketed by cloth, likely coming back from the market, and gave a bow and a polite greeting to Jeritza before focusing her bright eyes onto the new member of the Church faculty.

“I thought you might need this.” Her dainty hand presented a folded rectangle of paper. “It is a map of the monastery. I believe Seteth was too preoccupied with other things and thus, neglected to give you a proper tour of the place. If you still wish for it, I can show you around. I know this place as well as my brother.” Flayn gave the stoic young lady a sincere smile.

Now this, Byleth welcomed. As did Sothis, considering the mix of relief and approval she sensed. From her periphery, Byleth saw Jeritza depart with quiet footsteps. Releasing the grip on her blade, she shifted her other arm back to clasp her hands behind her for a more tranquil posture.

“Thank you, Flayn. I would appreciate your assistance.”

“Really?” The smile became a radiant grin. “If you have time in the week’s end, I can show you all of Garreg Mach! I do love the fishing pond and the greenhouse, and oh! The marketplace within the walls is also quite lively. Sometimes, foreign venders will come with goods and stories to tell of the outside world. My brother does not let me venture beyond the walls anymore without supervision, so it’s nice to hear their tales, and they often gift me with goods.”

Sifting through her woven basket, she offered the silent listener an apple bearing a golden hue.

“Here, professor! I have read that in some regions, it is tradition to present newcomers with produce to welcome them.”

Violet eyes blinked as she unclasped her hands from her back, slowly presenting an outstretched palm. Flayn placed the apple in her hand and giggled at the nod of thanks.

“You’re very welcome professor! Your class must be starting soon, I shan’t take up more of your time.” She sighed, smile fading every so slightly. “How I wish I could join.”

“Can you not?”

Her greened ringlets bounced as she shook her head. “Alas, brother will not allow me.”

“Are you not old enough to decide for yourself?”

Flayn froze. Her pale eyes grew wide.

Seldom did anyone reply to her mild plight with that sort of response. Most merely sympathized with her, encouraged her to convince Seteth, or attempted to have her understand Seteth’s perspective-saying it was only natural, for she was ‘young’ and still had much to learn about the world and room to grow before she could aim for independence. As perturbingly repetitive as it was, Flayn understood their opinions. If one took her appearance at face value, they’d see her as a child. Did this woman notice something others did not?

Her smile hid the strain of worry. She tittered again and swayed playfully on her feet. “Oh? How old do I look professor?” She had to know.

“Old enough to be autonomous in your decisions.” The professor stated flatly, giving nothing away. Not even a smirk as she stared her down, unmoved by the girl’s charming manner. Flayn was beginning to understand why Seteth had his reservations.

A lapse of silence. If Byleth pinned her down with that stare for a moment longer, Flayn’s playful sway would have transitioned to a nervous fidget.

. “… You may observe today’s class, if you wish.” She offered neutrally.

She almost let out a huff in relief when the stoic woman spoke. Warmth replaced the initial budding anxiety at her offer. As rare as her response was, there was something refreshing in being regarded with this civil impartiality rather than fondness. At least there was one person in this place that acknowledged her need for independence.

“Thank you, Professor! However, I must head to the mess hall otherwise” she lifted her basket, “the trout might spoil before the chefs can cook them for me.”

She bowed in departure, receiving an elegant one in return.

“Another time, then.”

…

_“She seemed skittish for a moment there. Like a little canary.”_

Byleth agreed in silence, wiping the golden apple with the sleeve of her cloak. Perhaps it was something she said or her manners or just all of the above. It wasn’t new for people to become skittish in her presence. With an inward shrug, she tossed the fruit into the air.

_“Let’s hope your students are not the same.”_

She caught the fruit with a deft hand, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the entity. There was wisdom in fear, in treading unknowns with caution. She would not resent them if they feared her.

_“But do you not hope that they won’t? Wish for it?... I’ve seen fragments of your experience. Your history… almost like a dream...” _

What of it? Did it disturb Sothis? Make her wonder the sanity of her host?

_“It seems… lonely.”_ Was she getting sleepy again? Her words were hesitant.

Byleth blinked, staring at the golden fruit in hand as though it were Sothis perched upon her stone throne. Be it truth or misconception, she did not know or care to decipher it. The theoretical plight of loneliness mattered very little to her, because nothing changed if it did matter in those past moments. Besides… whatever loneliness might have existed had always been staved by her father and a handful of mercenaries more amicable and open to her than the rest.

_“I am not certain if I find your optimism morbid or dismal.”_

Why would she find it either? It was what it was.

Sothis sighed, exasperated. Really, this girl…

The said girl only gave an inward shrug and absentmindedly twirled the apple in her hand. Golden Apples weren’t a common commodity, often sold by merchants in wealthier settlements where the demand for the indulgent, luxury fruit was present. It’s presence in the monastery’s marketplace only emphasized the church’s wealth, as did many things. Monks, Knights, Priests, even the menial staff here all looked well fed and happy.

If a much admired knight were to find and raise a family here, surely his family would mirror that happiness and security. So why did father leave? Another detail to add in the riddles etched into the very stone of this place, another unanswered question.

_“Here’s another question for you: where is the mess hall?” _Sothis grumbled.

She too must feel the gnawing discomfort. Hunger was starting to crawl in her stomach again, begging her to take at least one bite, maybe even pull out a knife and peel away the skin to use for apple tea later. It was tempting, especially with the apple’s enticing golden sheen and distinct fruity scent. But the idle desire dissipated as she heard the telltale sound of footsteps and lively chatter.

It was time for her first lesson.

_

The anticipation in the air was palpable among the Blue Lions. Felix, despite his natural inclination to resist the collective mentality, found himself just as excited if not more than the rest at the prospect of their first lesson. His excitement did not mirror the majority- who were chattering in speculation and wonder, but his strides were long and borderline hasty, spearheading the way towards the training grounds.

“Do you think she’s going to have us practice with swords?” Ashe wondered out loud, looking a smidgen concerned. “His Highness said she was a swordswoman. I’m not very good with swords.”

“Maybe it will be aptitude tests.” Annette speculated before mumbling to herself, hastily reviewing her spell work.

“Mmmmm.” Mercedes hummed before adding her own input. “ It might be a way to simply know us.”

“On the training grounds?” Ingrid frowned, “Wouldn’t just having a meal with us in the mess hall be a better way to do that?”

“Yeah, I don’t think she was even there.” The archer added, having done a quick scope of the mess hall during their lunch hour.

“She also doesn’t seem like the type to sit down, dine and chat with people.” Annette recalled the aftermath of Byleth’s greeting. The woman had been brief in her answers.

_“Professor Eisner, do we call you by your first name?”_

_“I don’t have a preference.” _

_“Really? So, can I call you darling?”_

_“Sylvain!”_

_“Ow! It was a joke!”_

_Their professor seemed unfazed, not even a blush or a creased brow of disdain. Upholding her flat tenor, she carried on. “Any other legitimate questions?”_

_“Is the Blade Breaker really your father?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“How old are you?”_

_“That’s irrelevant.”_

_“Aw, not even a hint?”_

_“Does it play a factor on your education? Survivability? Aptitude?”_

_“Er… I guess not-“_

_“Then it’s irrelevant.”_

_“Why our house?”_

_She blinked at Sylvain’s question. “…I was required to select one of the three.” _

_Before they could pry further, Felix made his trademark demand._

_“Fight me.”_

_“That is not a question.”_

The ‘introduction’ hadn’t lasted very long. It seemed as though their new professor wanted nothing more than to excuse herself in the midst of the borderline interrogation, so Dimitri intervened, allowing the woman to escape their curiosity.

Their skirt chaser dismissed the worry with a smirk. “Maybe she just needs to meet the right people. The ones that are passionate, charming, considerate, handsome to behold-“

“Who doesn’t go around trailing after the opposite sex like a dog in heat.” Felix finished.

Sylvain feinted hurt at the waspish statement, too accustomed to his childhood friend’s biting attitude to take genuine offense.

_

Upon entering the training ground, they were met with the sight of the professor standing still and silent in all her enigmatic dignity. The stillness of her posture would have been entirely eerie if it weren’t for the golden fruit being lightly tossed in a rhythmic bounce by her slender hand.

There was little need for her to demand order. Her silence alone seemed to spread among them like a bucket of water over a campfire.

As soon as there was quiet, she spoke.

“I am no certified scholar. Neither am I a renown historian, politician, or entertainer. I am a common-born mercenary. I have no experience in giving formal education; with that being said, I suppose this will be as much of a learning experience for me as I can only hope it will be for all of you.”

Some hesitant smiles, some soft whispers followed by shushing, some small disapproving frowns or looks of boredom. A mix of reactions, but they all waited. She took a breath and proceeded further.

“As you know, my niche lies with battle. I may not be able to teach you tact in government, but I can teach you how to have tact in a fight and if need be, in war. If, however, you wish to learn something more in broader fields of academia, I will not object to requests. I believe it is within my authority to schedule seminars so you can be taught what I cannot teach.”

There was a scoff from one of the students, a tall young man with dark hair and sharp, amber eyes. Felix was his name. He looked impatient, glaring at her to hurry it up with her introductory speech, but she remained unfazed.

Sothis, on the other hand, scoffed back at the gruff young man.

_“Arrogant ingrate.”_

Ignoring the girl’s growing ire, she continued. “You may also transfer out of this class, if you feel as though I am an inadequate instructor. I do not mind. I am aware of my shortcomings, and it would not be right to allow them to hinder your betterment. Am I understood?”

There were a collection of nods and words of acknowledgement. Not exactly a uniform “yes ma’am” she was accustomed to, but they were students not soldiers.

“Good. Now. Name an essential concept that must be understood in a battle.”

A short, ginger haired girl raised her hand. Annette.

“Morale of your troops?”

“More than morale.”

“Your goals? What you aim to do?” This time, it was a blonde with determined green eyes. Ingrid.

“In the broader scale of war, yes. But in a single battle, your primary goal should be obvious. Survive and win. Anyone else?”

“Your enemy’s strength.” Felix again. This time with something helpful to say.

“Technically yes, especially if you were a lone soldier, and it was a duel. But you will be responsible for several soldiers.”

Her remarks were immediate, words monotonous. She almost seemed disappointed despite her patience, but it was hard to tell with her apathetic disposition.

There was a lapse of silence. Then a hesitant voice.

“Numbers and condition?” It was the shy, freckled lad with silver hair.

His response earned a curt nod. “Please elaborate.”

“Er… I guess… how many people you have fighting with you, and if they’re alright and capable of fighting.”

Another nod. The simple gesture of approval brought a relieved smile to the boy’s face.

“Continuing on Ashe’s statement, you need to understand your human resources. Who are your soldiers? Are they mercenaries? Are they trained knights? Are they civilians forced to bear arms due to a military draft? How many of them are there? What utilities do they have at their disposal? An army of a hundred former farmers armed with pitchforks will likely perish very quickly under the charge of an elite two dozen cavalry units with iron lances. A dozen experienced Brigid hunters can fell an estimated score of Faerghus’s Pegasus riders when armed with the proper bows and arrows. A single mercenary can subdue a ship of pirates if they have enough prowess and thought.”

“A single mercenary?” Sylvain blinked. The former two scenarios made sense but the latter…?

“Yes. If she knows the location of their explosive barrels two floors beneath the spar deck and is of proper height and frame to squeeze into a window hatch on the side of the ship.” She answered in the same, impassive manner.

As if their eyes weren’t wide and searching already, the Blue Lions as a whole resembled a flock of flummoxed owls.

“How in the world did you-“

“That is a story for another time, Sylvain.” The former mercenary ceased her fiddling with her apple and crossed her arms. “Human resources… Which leads me to the main objective for today’s class. There will be a mock battle this month. To ensure success, I would like to know where all of you stand in terms of combat ability.”

“Are you going to spar against us?” There was a gleam in the young Fraldarius heir’s fire hued gaze.

“No.”

If it were in his nature, Felix would have wilted. Instead, the lone-wolf of a noble tsked in irritation. His companions weren’t as composed. Sylvain snickered while Ingrid bit her lip to hide her amusement. It almost seemed like their instructor was teasing him with her immediate, deadpanned response.

“Consider it a tournament system. The victor of each spar will face one another. You win if you disarm the other or have them yield. As for an incentive… I will fulfill a request made by the final victor, so long as it is within reason.”

“Is a date reasonable?”

Whether it was a response, or she was pointedly ignoring the shameless flirt, Byleth carried on by creating the first match up.

“Sylvain, you will spar Felix.”

Now Ingrid could no longer hold her amusement. She smirked at the blanching face of the redhead.

...

Dimitri could only describe her countenance as clockwork: methodical, impersonal, but intricate. The way her eyes moved, absorbing different aspects of the fight, focusing on Sylvain’s parry against the harsh, downward slice of Felix’s training sword for one moment before they darted their concentration to the footwork of Felix’s stance as he prepared a feint. Her slim finger tapped in a constant rhythm against the hard fruit in her grasp.

It’s beat faltered ever so slightly when Sylvain repositioned his stance and performed a lunging horizontal swipe with his lance.

She blinked once. Twice.

“Dimitri.” Pale blue eyes transitioned from observing her in periphery to giving her his full attention.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Felix and Sylvain, do you know the function of their crests?”

A peculiar question to ask. She never gave any indication of being interested in Crestology, let alone aware of its existence in the short period he knew her. Was she even interested in anything?

“I believe it grants them greater strength in combat.”

“… But they’re different.” She tilted her head. Her finger began tapping at a faster pace now. He could almost see the gears of clockwork accelerate faster and faster and faster until…

“Sylvain’s crest… does it occasionally enhance the impact behind the form of his premeditated strikes? Felix’s seems to enhance his weapon handling entirely rather than his form.”

Crests, as famous and glorified as they were in Fodlan, were an intimate matter for those who bore them. Knowing who inherited Crests was simple in Garreg Mach. The application system required incoming students to fill a form and go through a process identifying such matters, but to know the specifics of a Crest-what they can accomplish, their potential, whether the bearer has a major or minor one… Either one had to have access to Crestology archives, which could only be done by reputable scholars like Professor Hanneman or a high ranking noble, or they had to be abnormally astute or just incredibly, uncannily lucky in guessing.

Dimitri was beginning to understand Claude’s zealous curiosity, especially pertaining to the woman before him. What thoughts went on in that mind of hers?

“Do you not know, Dimitri? Or is it impolite to inquire upon a noble’s crest?”

Mouth ajar, the prince was staring at her with stunned silence. Has she committed some social transgression? It wouldn’t be the first time, but this time her father was absent and unable to minimize its damage.

“My apologies professor… you’re just… very observant.”

“I have to be.” She remarked frankly. “I would not have lived this long otherwise. Knowing whether someone has an inherent advantage in a fight due to some bloodline might determine whether I live or die.” She folded her arms again. “However, there is still much I do not understand about it. Forgive my ignorance.”

“No, no need. Please. Although, I think it’s best to ask Felix and Sylvain personally about their crests.”

A single nod was her only reply before she returned her undivided attention to the spar. It was clear Sylvain was stalling the inevitable. Felix was relentless and hungry for the victory, the prospect of sparring their professor inflamed his default, competitive hunger. Blow for blow, he capitalized his speed, compensating the shorter length of his blade compared to Sylvain’s lance.

“Gah!” The Gautier heir flinched, parrying a particularly grip rattling downwards slash. “Easy Felix! Geez, didn’t think you’d be the type to try and impress a lady.”

“Stop talking and start fighting, idiot.”

Not a second passed after his biting statement when Felix was forced to leap back at a well-timed swipe aimed for his side. He scoffed. For an idiot, he was a wily bastard. If his reflexes weren’t honed, Felix would have fell for that blow.

With that thought in mind, he finished the fight with a punishing counter, giving the red head a good, bone bruising thwack to his forearm.

“Yowch!” The lance fell to the ground as its owner nursed his tender arm. “Yield! Yeesh, man. Hit any harder and I’ll have to wear a sling.”

Their mock tournament rules were simple. Close quarter combatants fought until one yielded or was disarmed into a submissive position. Ranged combatants would have more of a point-based system to simulate battle wounds. Should the blunt arrow strike a vital point, or the fire ball knock the opponent to the ground, it was an automatic yield.

Dimitri let out a huff in exasperation. If he were Sylvain, he would have picked up his lance in his uninjured hand and continued. If only the Gautier noble put as much effort into sparring as he did with chasing women.

Mercedes, ever the gentle, motherly soul, tended to the contusion as it began darkening into an ugly shade.

“Thank you, Mercie. You’re a saint both in beauty and soul.” The said ‘saint’ merely chuckled, too used to the philanderer’s antics to truly take his words to heart as her palm released a faint, soothing glow. Before she finished, Sylvain rested his hand over hers, grinning wider.

Dimitri merely frowned. Honestly, the man had no shame. Blue eyes darted to their new instructor-who did not shift in expression or posture at the tomfoolery. Still, despite her indifference, it was unbecoming of Sylvain to act so shamelessly. This was their first day with Professor Eisner. It wouldn’t do well to sour her impression of the Blue Lions.

Meanwhile, Annette and Ashe took their place with their chosen weapons in hand. Both were nervous, despite this not being their first sparring experience. There was a newfound pressure caused by their enigmatic professor’s daunting scrutiny. The pressure refined their anxiety into resolve.

At Dimitri’s cue, Ash quickly leapt, putting distance between them, simultaneously notching an arrow to his bow in the process. Annette let out a squeak, narrowly dodging the quick shot assault before she held her axe with a firm grip and a newfound grit. It changed Dimitri’s frown into a small smile of pride for his classmates. Both she and Ashe had that parallel tendency, that need to prove themselves worthy of their position, worthy of that same sharp focus their professor had on the match prior. Amicable as they were, the two always worked hard to prove their mettle.

Annette made no further move to close the distance between them, all the while avoiding another two shots. The closer the target, the less accuracy needed to fire a decent shot; and Ashe had the best accuracy in their house. He also put up a decent fight in close quarters-nowhere on par with Felix but enough to best Annette. She couldn’t risk it.

So the sorcerer did what she knew best and casted a quick spell. Two fire balls in rapid succession came at the archer. The first was narrowly avoided, but to Dimitri’s surprise, the silver haired lad toughened his footing while notching an arrow. Knees bent, arms raised, head tucked, and breath held, he had his shoulder take the brunt of the flaming projectile.

“Uh oh!” Annette cringed, ready to spill a hasty apology only to be muted by shock. The flames dissipated, and just as they did, Ashe stood straighter and released his notched arrow with a sharp twang.

“Ooph!” Although the point was softened and blunted, an arrow to the abdomen still stung. The hit signified the end of their spar with an automatic yield, and as soon as it struck, Ashe was quick to make an apologize and check on his sparring partner.

“Sorry Annette! I didn’t mean to let it fly so hard. I just didn’t want to get hit by another one of your fire balls.”

“No, it’s a-alright!” Annette winced, rubbing her stomach. “Are you okay?”

The boy shook his head, smiling in earnest. True to his denial, he didn’t seem to bear any burns, though the hoodie peaking from his uniform bore a minor singe.

Their classmates praised his win, much to the Duran boy’s embarrassment. His face went pink when Dimitri placed a firm hand on his shoulder, complimenting his win before guiding him to stand beside Felix in the victor’s area.

Meanwhile, their professor remained stationary, far more stoic than any sentinel watching over the forbidden areas of Garreg Mach. Not a single word of praise, or even a spared glance of concern. She seemed hard to impress, even harder to faze. The prince wasn’t sure how to digest this observation. It was too soon to feel embittered by the apparent jaded nature of hers.

But he couldn’t fight the ever-growing wonder as the session continued. She was impossible to read with face alone, and the small nuances of her body’s movement only told so much. Her finger carried on it’s steady tapping, even when Mercedes yielded quickly to Ingrid, who frowned, dissatisfied by the easy victory. Yet, she quickly made adjustments after the yielding, pairing Mercedes against Annette and Ingrid against Ashe before he could enter the field with Dedue, his designated opponent.

Was she testing Mercedes’s fighting spirit or lack thereof? Or did she simply wish to compare their two spellcasters’ magical affinities? Her finger tapping ceased once again when she watched Ingrid deliver a perfectly formed and executed tempest strike, knocking Ashe’s axe before holding him at spearpoint. Did she decipher the ability of Ingrid’s Crest as well?

When it was his turn, Dimitri found himself more enthused than usual. The wooden shaft of his lance creaked in protest at his impassioned grip. There was an unspoken pressure in the air, an expectation to perform better.

There was more force in His Highness’s blows, but Dedue held his tongue. Instead, the stalwart retainer increased his effort to maintain his defenses with a series of blocks before making his strike to prevent the prince from gaining the upper hand. However, it was clear that it was only a matter of time before Dimitri would win.

But before any victory could be achieved, the professor intervened.

“That will do. Dimitri, please continue observing your classmates.” Before the prince could protest, she continued.

“I have already witnessed you in combat. As the house leader, it would be best for you to survey those under your command. Watching may provide invaluable insight. I would also like your input as well.”

It was a sound argument, enough to mollify but still, a boyish part of him wished to come out of the spar victorious.

Eventually the outcomes were clear. Felix disarmed Ingrid after a series of blows, forcing the girl to yield. When it came to facing Dedue, it was a close match. The Duscurian’s defenses were impressive, but alas could not match the swordsman’s speed. Victory went to Felix.

The heir of House Fraldarius looked none worse for the wear, if anything, he looked eager. Standing tall, steadying his breathes, he turned to her.

“I won. Now fight me.”

There was a groan of exasperation from Ingrid, while Sylvain scratched the back of his neck, chagrinned by his childhood friend’s audacious tenacity. The Blue Lions gingerly eyed their professor, searching for signs of anger or indignance.

None were present. Internally, however, was another story.

_“What a rude BRAT!” _Sothis snarled, beating her fists against the stone arms of her throne. “_The boy wants to fight; we’ll give him a fight. Quickly! BEAT that terrible attitude out of him.”_

Terrible seemed hyperbolic. She’s dealt with ruder people than one sharp tongued young noble. Also, beating a noble bruised and bloody only seemed to be a surefire way of getting fired…. Not that she minded. But she could only imagine the headache it would cause her father.

Fuming, Sothis hissed out her reason. _“He will not be receptive to any lesson if he does not respect you. Show him you are to be respected. Some will only learn through force.”_

Indeed, some did. She knew that well enough, having dealt with her fair share of thickheaded recruits. It had become an unspoken system established within her father’s company. Jeralt would acclimate new recruits to the company with a basic rundown of how they functioned. She would then refine them if they wished to have higher earnings and take on harder battles. Among those, there were a scarce few who came in with bigger heads and lazy eyes, especially when they saw her average height, comely face, and overall quiet demeanor. They never lasted long.

They can bend or break, the older mercenaries would say.

There was always a newfound appreciation among their fighters for Jeralt’s position as the head of their company. He trained them with an iron scepter, firm but assuring in his dominance. His daughter, on the other hand, was a well-crafted wyvern whip.

She exhaled through her nose for a subtle sigh. If she knew this session would end up with a duel, she would have worn her training gear and not her white blouse.

_“Don’t dirty it then. Make it fast so that the boy stops barking.”_

Hm. Sothis did have a rational point in all her high maintenance fuming. Very well then. She should do this quickly but with some regard to the young man’s position. Thus she asked some follow-up questions.

“Do the same rules apply?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a specific weapon?”

“Swords. You’re a swordswoman, are you not?”

“In general, yes.” She walked to the wall, where the training equipment lay, ignoring the eyes that followed. Grabbing the first sword within reach, she made her way to the small arena.

The golden apple never left her hand, much to the confusion of many and the irritation of one. Felix glared at the fruit. The burning amber glare shifted to her entire being when she moved. Apple held in her left hand and training sword grasped firmly within her right, she shifted into a simple sideways stance.

“On your signal.” She stated, as if she weren’t holding a fruit at all and hadn’t considered how such actions could be interpreted by a proud noble of Faerghus- she really didn’t. She just wanted to prevent the apple from being dirtied.

Such display stripped Felix of all fatigue and fueled the ferocious speed of his first strike. While his crest granted him bouts of greater force when assaulting with his weapons, he favored agility. It gave him more opportunities to take out his opponents without more dally than necessary. It was a style that favored aggression.

Most would falter at the combined speed and force of his assault. Experienced duelists would perform a block or a dodging retreat. Many would see the searing glare marring his face and hesitate or process their next course of action.

But the professor did none of those things. Instead, she tossed her apple into the air and moved.

Misdirection. For a moment, he was taken aback. But Felix was not one to be distracted so easily by some blatant trick. He’s sparred enough with Sylvain to know not to.

He swung in a downward arch to meet her upward swing.

A single shift to the side, a simple loosening of her grip. Her fingers parted its white knuckled grasp on her own training sword, and like a viper, latched itself onto his wrist.

In a heartbeat, with grace in every coiling movement of her body’s musculature and force that belied the strength of her shorter stature, the new professor sent one of the Officer Academy’s greatest student swordsmen into the dirt .

The clatter of a dropped wooden blade, the scratchy thud of a body on gravel, and then silence.

Wide amber eyes stared at the training sword_-his own sword_-pointed towards his throat. It’s blunted tip a hair’s width away from touching his Adam’s apple. Slowly they traveled their way up the blade’s edge to the single, slender hand gripping its handle, following an invisible line to the piercing violet blue eyes shadowed by the unruly dark fringe. There, they stilled, pinned by the calculative edge in her lidded gaze.

He could have tried to swipe at her feet. Perhaps arm himself with her discarded sword to put up a better fight. With any other sparring partner, he would have. But those eyes and the sting of the sudden defeat rendered him immobile.

Somewhere deep within his jaded spirit, a seed of bittersweet nostalgia took root.

He hadn’t experienced a loss this humbling since Glenn.

His stupefied silence mirrored the rest of the Blue Lions who had varying degrees of saucer-wide eyes and mouths agape. Even their ever stoic Duscurian- who was the only one to keep his leaps sealed- stared owlishly.

The Fraldarius heir tried to digest what happened. His speed, his momentum, the strength of his ire… she had used it against him. With a swipe of her leg to cause imbalance and a subtle, swift, but complex series of shifting grips and positions that sent nerve pinching pain into his hand and a change in posture, she disarmed him and had him on his arse.

_plop_

At some point in the silence, gravity took its effect on the apple as it did with him. It landed with right into her waiting hand, breaking the silence.

The _gong _of the monastery’s bell followed right after.

Tucking the practice blade under her arm, she stretched out her hand to the floored student.

His stupor fated into a disgruntled glare, but he did not deny the hand. As degrading as he felt, Felix was not entirely devoid of decency. Mercenary or professor, the woman deserved his respect.

She released her grip as soon as he stood, returning his training sword before turning to the rest of the crowd.

“I believe this concludes our first session. As an assignment, each of you should take some time to consider a plan of approach to the mock battle that will come by this moon’s end.”

“Um…” Annette raised her hand. “Should we have it written down?”

“Write it, illustrate it, present it orally, I have no preference so long as you bring something of relevance to our next session. Any questions?”

Silence ensued. At least in the physical. Unknown to them, a certain green haired girl was cackling within the recesses of their aloof instructor’s mind.

Byleth wasn’t sure whether the lack of response was a positive indicator or a negative one, but she wasn’t one to waste time lingering in this still silence especially when her stomach threatened to break it in its demanding hunger.

“Class dismissed.”

She gave them a curt nod and moved to put away her own training sword.

It might have been her growing unease at the stares or Sothis’s grumbling impatience at the gnawing hunger, but Byleth moved quickly, pointedly ignoring the gawking students. Had the first session not been satisfactory or had it been too harsh? She hadn’t left any bruises, blood, or broken bones. If her mercenaries witnessed the session, they would have scoffed in disbelief and asked if she had suddenly gone soft.

_“On the contrary, I think they will remember the lesson for the rest of their lives.” _Sothis tittered.

Well, at least one person seemed satisfied. Byleth absentmindedly took a bite into her apple. It was delicious. Crunchy, juicy, and refreshingly sweet as though it were dipped in honey.

_“It’s good but surely you don’t intend to only eat an apple, do you? Now that we have a map, you should seek out the mess hall.” _Ah yes, a map. She would have to find a way to thank Flayn.

_..._

Their eyes lingered on her retreating form as she sauntered off and out of the training facility.

“Our professor…” Eyes round and virtually shining with awe, Annette turned to her peers. “She’s so cool!”

Ashe nodded fervently in agreement. “She’s like that mysterious swordsman from the Tales of the Wandering Blade.”

“She must like apples.” Mercedes commented, smiling. There had been a sense of content in the professor’s gait as she departed, munching on her apple.

“That wasn’t a real fight.” Felix grumbled, dusting off his pants and sleeves. His remark earned an eye-roll from the Galatea noble.

“Be glad she even humored your ‘request’, if you can even call it that. You can’t just demand things like a child.”

Before he could retort, Sylvain let out a bark of laughter. “Aw, c’mon Ingrid. No need to give him the lecture. I think Felix learned his lesson.”

“I doubt it.”

“Speaking of lesson, if this is how her lessons start, I’m looking forward to class from now on.”

Now it was the archer’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m sure that’s the only reason you’d be looking forward to them.” Polite and earnest as he was, Ashe’s rare but rather sharp acerbity was reserved for their philanderer.

“Oh c’mon Ashe. You can’t deny that that our ‘mysterious swordsman’ is gorgeous. Even His Highness is drooling.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dimitri’s jaw closed with a snap, head turning to the Gautier noble. While there was no drool present, red started to creep onto his ears and neck.

“You can frown and be proper all you want, but I can see the spark in your baby blues.”

His teasing only earned a scowl as Dimitri cleared his throat, stifling the flush of embarrassment threatening to inflame his face. “Have some respect for Professor Eisner, Sylvain. Only a fool would look at her face and blind themselves to her remarkable skill.”

“Ah, so it’s the face? Not those long legs or her fine-”

“Ingrid.”

“OOPH”

Not a single soul, even their kindest soul- Mercedes only shifted her kind smile into a pitying one- looked surprised as the philanderer doubled over wheezing, holding his diaphragm where Ingrid’s sharp elbow met it’s mark.

Even without their prince’s cue, the blonde had been prepared to silence the shameless flirt. She mirrored Dimitri’s face in hand while Felix shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took so long to write. So much has happened these weeks, I almost cried for joy when I finally had the time to sit down and FINALLY write this piece down. It's... a lot longer than I initially intended after I added the first little flashback piece after finishing the main part. I hope you don't mind. I reread once or twice, pardon any mistakes but at the snail pace I'm going, I just decided to post it and sleep. No RAGRETs... maybe one letter. who knows.  
Having comments to read about my work after being so rusty was really encouraging! Thank you and please continue to read and review!
> 
> A/N: I imagined the demonic Monster Wolf to be born from one of the early byproduct of experiments that the Agarthans did with Crest Stones and their corruptive capability. I can't see why they wouldn't try and test various live subjects, from wild beasts to ordinary people.


	3. Black Eagles: Her cup of tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand von Aegir makes it his noble duty show his aloof Professor the right way to have tea. It ends up being a subtle lesson in humanity (or should we say, humaniTEA... I'm terrible.)

**Year 1167, Alliance Territory**

“Keep your legs together and slant them. Press your upper arms to your side and keep your head tilted a bit down-yes just like that. Now take your tea and remember, don’t slurp, don’t blow on your tea, just sip it gently.”

His mirthful smirk was constant, his instructions gentle, but his were watchful of her every motion. While Byleth obeyed, he sipped on his own cup from their makeshift tea table of stacked crates covered in cloth.

“Nicely done, bluebell. If you had on a fine dress, you’d blend in perfectly with the ladies of the court.”

In other words, no one would suspect the dagger tucked somewhere on her person or the fire that could burst from her dainty fingertips in a moment’s notice. Not even the little noble brat they were hired to guard and Byleth was tasked accompanying. Such praise was double-sided coming from him. The man hadn’t stopped eying her after her sudden suggestion in her father’s meeting. He was one of many who looked, but unlike the others who only shifted around her- away from her- in discomfort, he seemed curious if not borderline fascinated. 

Apprehend the assassin with a bait and snare strategy. Rather than simply bolstering security around the noble family, they could create an opening, a temptation carefully fabricated in the form of the unguarded noble brat and his equally ‘defenseless’ little lady-friend and her butler. It was a raw, general outline of a plan, but coming out of the mouth of an eight-year-old was understandably disconcerting. Even Jeralt, in all of his stoic bearing, seemed a bit put off by his daughter’s self-endangerment and eerie sense of pragmatism.

They wouldn’t be entirely unprotected though. He was to play as the butler, waiting in close proximity, blending in. It was an easy feat for someone like him. He was a natural after all. Along with his looks, silver tongue, and charm, he was no stranger to the ways of the court and the mannerisms of nobility. Just as much of an assassin as he was an entertainer for a crowd or a morale booster for his soldiers.

Byleth, however endearing his little flower was, did not exude that same natural theatrical talent. The girl could look the part, with her doll-like looks, but she had the mannerisms of a faceless golem. Thus, they came about to this solution: a mock tea party and a crash course on noble etiquette.

To bystanders, perhaps it appeared cute. A dashing mercenary such as himself humoring their leader’s treasured child. (Hopefully, for his personal benefit, the fair maidens would think so.) But beyond the amusing sight, their little pretend game became more of a lesson on human behavior. The child, bless her odd but clever spirit, needed it desperately. He has seen her interact with the folks around her, her feeble attempts at socializing at the behest of her father. There was something just miserable about watching Jeralt’s little girl be blatantly-at times, harshly- rejected by both young and old. She took in in stride though, in her own peculiar way. Unperturbed and accepting of the hostility as one would accept that the sun sets or that the sky is blue.

How pitifully blind of the majority, as the mass are wont to be, in his opinion. The girl was far brighter than many would assume for one who bore such an empty, listless expression. His good friend Brady had seen it like a keen-eyed blacksmith with a raw but precious ore. And now he, himself, saw it more resolutely the more they continued with these social lessons.

The girl was a sponge, a mithril blade growing sharper and sharper.

At some point in their lesson, he set down his cup and paced around her. Dark eyes glinting with something curious.

“Let’s say we are strangers at a luncheon. I come to you dressed in high court fashion. What does my current walk tell you? What do you notice?”

A pause and a quiet sip. Her violet blues followed his feet.

“Your front soles land first. It makes your steps land softer.”

“Good. Assassins, thieves, those trained in stealth tend to walk in this manner. While it’s not a surefire thing that our ‘sin might do the same, it’s still something to look out for.”

He sat down again, one leg bent and atop the other. He leaned forward, close, resting his arm on the propped leg before perching his chin on his palm. Lips curved into his trademark smile; he gave her a wink when she tilted her head at his proximity.

“And now?”

“…You are trying to be winsome, but your raised leg has a knife in its boot and you’re in position to reach for it quickly should you need to.”

How terribly fascinating. Most by now would only be able to watch in horror as his victim bleeds out from a well-aimed slice in the jugular, too slow to make the connection or have that inclination towards deducing the hidden motives in his well-practiced, misdirecting movements. Most guardsmen already have. A real pity that his past targets didn’t have someone like her. Far more observant than your average child.

Was it nature or nurture that birthed this awareness? He wondered.

He pushed his morbid curiosity aside and adjusted his posture, bringing back distance between them. Physical closeness made her uncomfortable. He knew that much. What her face didn’t say, her body told volumes.

“When you’re with the boy, put some milk and sugar in your tea. Kids your age usually like sweet things. Don’t stir the teaspoon though.”

“Fold the mixture in.”

“Precisely. Don’t keep eye contact for too long. Blink a few times with those pretty lashes of yours and look at something else for a bit. Fidget too. You need to look timid. It will make you look sweeter-though I think you’re plenty cute.” He winked again, only to receive her empty stare. As wounding as it was on his ego, he wasn’t one to be deterred quite yet. Sooner or later, he’ll get a blush out of her. “Have some biscuits while you’re at it. I heard the cakes in Gloucester are delicious.”

Byleth stared at her tea. “… this makes people more comfortable?”

His smile waned into a puzzled smirk. “Pardon?”

She sipped her tea again, replicating the proper little lady as she was instructed. “Will this make people more at ease with my presence?”

“… I suppose?” Not a question he expected, but Jeralt’s girl did many things he wouldn’t expect. A feat in itself for he was better than most at anticipating those around him.

She blinked in a pregnant pause before responding hesitantly.

“Does it ease the mind of others when they see someone hide behind their manners?”

Ah, this was where she was getting at.

“To the shallow many yes.” He confessed. “But to those precious few, I think they’d prefer your candor.”

“Truly?” Her expression remained unchanged as did her posture. And yet, there was something about her emptiness that seemed far too melancholic for someone so young. That would not do at all. Especially in his presence.

So, he knelt, leveling the height of their gaze. Rich, warmed brown met those eyes the color of the flowers from which he derived his little terms of endearment for her.

“Deception with false propriety is a bloody red rose with sharp thorns, dear violet. But sincerity? Honesty, from an untainted heart like yours? That is a rare bloom far more fragrant and beautiful than any cultured rose.”

“I am not untainted.”

He knew what she implied. Many of the company’s veterans knew, though they never spoke of it lest they wished to face Jeralt’s imposing glare. She already had the blood of another on her hands, had taken the life of a man foolish enough to consider her size and age as easy prey. Rumors said that she rinsed away the gore from her hands and dagger as a farmer would wash away dirt or a butcher would clean their knife.

If only they noticed, if only they were as keen as him. They would have noticed the subtle signs of her withdrawal. How she kept herself scarce when Jeralt or his trusted veterans were absent, him being one. While she may not bear the trauma of an average child, there was no doubt that she’d been troubled for the next few weeks after that incident. Yet, for some of their former company members, it only served as proof that the girl was a bad omen.

“Forsaken by the goddess.” Some of them said, when they walked away.

He wanted to sigh. The fear riddled beliefs sown into this land seemed to come at the price of common sense.

And he thought Plegian superstitions were troublesome….

At least Jeralt could count of him and his close companions to not put stakes in such gossip. His daughter’s behavior was indeed rather deviant, but he’s seen a number of oddities and mysteries that it wasn’t disconcerting.

But it was bittersweet.

She reminded him of _her_ with that odd solitude haunting her being. With those eyes and that hair, barely a few hues different but layered in a similar, untidy way from a life lacking the commonplace luxuries they should have been given.

So, he spoke, his somber musings concealed under a gentler smile.

“Nay, your hands aren’t. None of ours are in our line of work, little lobelia. But your hands do not hold your heart. And your heart is pure.”

Whether or not Byleth agreed remained unspoken, but he could have sworn he saw something in those eyes. Something not cold and unfeeling but very much alive.

* * *

**Year 1180, Blue Sea Moon, Garreg Mach Monastery**

It was a fine Sunday at the Academy. One could even argue that it was a perfect summer day. The clouds were aplenty but not too smothering, providing the monastery with pleasant shade while leaving enough room to admire the blue sky. A welcomed breeze would frequently sweep through the grounds, further alleviating the sweat inducing heat of the summers of Central Fodlan.

Considering the temperature and free day, many students eagerly took advantage. Some loosened their uniforms, shedding their officer coats while unbuttoning a few top buttons of their shirts, others headed to town for a tavern meal or indulged in the freshly squeezed fruit juice offered in the mess hall.

Few really considered sitting themselves down and having some tea, but alas that was one of many things that distinguished nobility from the common folk, especially one as refined as himself.

Ferdinand von Aegir was not just any average student. He was a noble. So, while he didn’t openly disapprove of the way some of his peers ruffled up their uniforms-Caspar, that brazen mess, was bordering on crude with his old tunic and lounge pants- to fulfill their whims of finding relief in the summer, he was above such things and as such, opted for tea.

Today seemed to be a perfect day for having some Southern Fruit Blend at the pavilion.

But alas, there was one small setback besmirching his tea plans: There wasn’t anyone to accompany him in the endeavor.

By ‘no one’, he meant no one who held the same noble poise or polish, especially in regards to the art of the fine beverage. Even among his classmates…

He sighed.

Caspar wasn’t even an option, just having Bernadetta leave her room would be a challenge, Petra would rather spend the day hunting, having tea on this fine day with his arch rival hardly seemed tasteful, Dorothea would rather drink poison than drink tea with him for **some unfathomable reason,** and he would rather drink _poison_ than sit down with the heir of House Vestra.

In other words, his options ran thin.

Tea on a fine day as this one was an indulgence meant to be taken in the company of another. This would not do.

With quick strides, Ferdinand all but marched to the cathedral with his dilemma written carefully onto a note. While the advice box would not rectify the situation immediately, it could prevent this from being a repeating issue for him.

Once he slipped his little note into the box, He took a longer stroll out of the cathedral, towards the eastern wing. This leisure day should hardly be lost from one little obstacle. Furthermore, sulking and mourning his dilemma was not becoming of a noble. At the very least, he should admire the weather with a fine view.

It appeared he wasn’t alone in his idea, or more accurately, he wasn’t the first. Someone was already there, occupying the bench. They faced the edge, towards the scenic sights, away from him and anyone else who would pass by.

He curved his route to get a better view, but he recognized that choppy, layered blue head. He’d seen it in class all the time whenever their professor drew on the chalkboard.

Confirming his guess, he paused to take it in. She looked relaxed with the loose sleeves of her cream-colored shirt rolled up to her forearms. There was even an ease to her shoulders; a rare sight to see from the aloof and pragmatically functional woman.

In the short time he’s been under her tutelage, he noticed her rigidity has been a prominent aspect of her odd character. Always aware, perpetually unfazed, and sometimes faraway despite being near in proximity.

Although at this very moment, while her faraway demeanor remained unchanged, her posture seemed rather… serene. He dared to describe it being as picturesque as a scenic oil painting of the Southern Fodlan shores.

She sat with her legs crossed and stretched, clad in plain shear stockings tucked under a pair of black shorts. Her cloak was left draped over a wicker basket lying at her side while a brown folder was secured in the slim gap in between. Her hands clasped what appeared to be a mug and resting on her lap, or at least what sparse room was left on it, because her lap space was monopolized by… a black, hairy loaf?

Curiosity piqued, and courage forever bountiful-a true noble should not be some spineless coward even if their professor could send a bull wyvern crawling into its roost should she felt inclined, Ferdinand made his approach.

It would feel like a missed opportunity, otherwise, for seeing Professor Eisner stationary by choice out in the open was not an everyday occurrence. The woman was either always seen out and about the monastery in the midst of an errand, pausing only at certain points to humor some of the animals, or simply not in sight at all.

Thinking about it now, she seemed rather elusive when removed of any academic obligation. Granted, she was not completely out of reach so long as one made an appointment. If that was the case, she’d diligently keep it scheduled. But there was a clear, formal method of approach, a system her students needed to resort to in order to interact with the woman for a duration longer than a handful of minutes.

While he admired such meticulous professionalism, Ferdinand couldn’t help but feel it now became a gap that needed to be bridged rather than a bridge for a gap as it should originally be. That feeling was only emphasized further at the sight of the faint, steaming curls permeating from the tinted liquid in her mug.

She was having tea in a place like _this_. In a cup like _that_. _Alone_.

Well not entirely alone. He realized, after closer inspection. The black loaf had a pair of ears and a long, bushy tail.

A cat. Of course, it was a cat. The critters of the monastery- be it owl, dog, or cat- spent more quality time with the professor than people did.

Partaking in tea in such solitude with only a cat for company in what wasn’t even a proper teacup? This most certainly would not do on this fine day. Not if he, Ferdinand von Aegir had anything to say about it.

It was only when the woman turned her head to meet his gaze that Ferdinand realize he spoke his thoughts aloud.

“Hello, Ferdinand. Yes,” she answered, blandly as ever, “I am having tea here with this mug.” as if she was not in the middle of committing a faux pas in tea etiquette.

At ease, Ferdinand Von Aegir. As a conscientious gentleman, you must remember your professor’s lowborn background. The finesse incorporated into a proper tea-time must not be a known practice among the common folk.

While Ferdinand mulled over his thoughts, Byleth blinked.

Her eyes looked to her cup then back to the student.

“… It’s Almyran Pine Needle… Would you like some?” She recalled observing Ferdinand enjoying his tea with flourish not too long ago. Perhaps the young man took to tea as her father took to good ale. And it was very good tea, gifted to her by her father. As such, it was cherished, but she wouldn’t mind sharing if need be.

He came closer, but rather than taking her up on the offer, the young man appeared exasperated…?

“Professor!” The cat on her lap twitched at the outburst. She stroked its back to ease its impending ire.

“There is a far more suitable way to have tea.” he admonishes with a flip of his fringe, “your mercenary days disallowed you to be properly educated in tea etiquette, but ignorant you will be no further! Not in the company of I, Ferdinand von Aegir! It is my noble duty to educate those less fortunate on how to emulate the age old finesse that comes with this noble tradition!”

_… What nonsense is the brat rambling about?_

Tea. She thinks to her phantom companion.

_Well, when will he cease the blabber and let us return to our peace?_

The feline on her lap seemed to agree with the pointy-eared girl. Opening its eyes, it yawned and all but leered at the student with a peeved swish in its bushy tail.

Meanwhile, the oblivious noble carried on, “Please, accompany me professor! I must enlighten you. Tea is no mere beverage. It is an art form.”

_Ignore the imbecile. _Sothis almost pleaded. This was her time of relaxation just as much as it was Byleth’s. The sudden heatwave this past week had been unbearable, spoiling her usual sleep while her host went about her duties. They came here to indulge in some peace under the perfect resting climate, and everything had been perfect until this invasively showy ginger appeared.

Speaking of whom, he was still talking and to her disgruntlement, Byleth was indulging him with her attention. Didn’t her host understand that such behavior only exacerbated the issue?

“…dating back to the time of the Saints! Why, some of the finest blends are named after the great heroes. The finer the blend, the greater care one must have in brewing-”

Whilst the young man spoke, Byleth wondered in vacant thought; if not tea, perhaps he preferred a biscuit. Setting her mug aside, Byleth lifted the cloth cover of her wicker basket and plucked a cinnamon cookie from the batch kindly gifted to her by Mercedes.

_Why would the boy want a biscuit? Is he a dog? _Sothis grumbled, but her host was undeterred.

“Seiros Tea, for instance, while common and described to be basic in its flavors, is a blend of elegance and simplicity that actually requires significant care and consideration- oh why thank you!” Puzzled but bright-eyed at the offered treat, he took the cookie and continued.

“It must be steeped at both the right water temperature and the right room temperature and humidity. But beyond the technical level, Professor, there is a social level of propriety one must have to fully enjoy it.”

Sothis groaned. _The dog is still barking. You are supposed to reward GOOD BEHAVIOR._

Byleth remained stoic, but the cat sighed for her. Be in mental or in the physical, she wasn’t going to get much silence at this rate.

_We were having a nice and quiet moment together, enjoying your beverage before Fredrick don Air _(Ferdinand von Aegir) _WHATEVER showed up. _Sothis yawns again, stretching with the disgruntled air of a bothered feline not unlike the black companion on her lap. _I was preparing for a nap and-by the divine heavens is the dog still talking?_

Indeed, Ferdinand von Aegir was.

“… While I do not disapprove of your selectivity in who you keep for company in your leisure, being in my presence surely trumps any grain of satisfaction that can be gained from others of our House, especially Hubert and Edelgard. I am, after all, a well-educated, well spoken-”

_Silence the fertile-land-bone-a-gear whatever his name is already!_

…Well Ferdinand von Aegir (at some point Sothis should remember that name. The girl’s odd memory problem was certainly becoming more concerning _HEY!_) was offering them ‘proper teatime’. Which wasn’t an entirely alien concept to her. However, she wondered what purpose it would serve. If anything, this was proper teatime for her. While it wasn’t the same as sipping on her warm tea before a campfire or atop a boulder under a starlit night during her travels, it was the closest thing to it that she could try here.

There was no need to for any teatime etiquette on these grounds. No utilitarian goals she needed to fulfill under the guise of blending into some social norm. But perhaps there was on his end. Why else would he ask-demand- her to tea like this? What did he need? An extra lesson? Some tips on his riding skill? Perhaps an appointment to train with her father?

Meanwhile the entity rubbed her eyes with tired mutters and grumbles before hissing,

_I want a proper nap, not a proper tea-time. But you won’t say no, will you._

Because contrary to her indifferent exterior, her host was rather attentive of those under her care and generous with her time.

There was little harm in accepting, she reasoned internally to the cranky spirit. Mercedes had given her too many biscuits to eat on her own anyway.

...

He felt victorious. Especially when he recognized familiar faces among the eyes that followed their wake. There was a particular sense of satisfaction that swelled within his chest at the sight of a certain Adrestian princess’s face when she saw who accompanied him for tea. While her loyal guard dog merely regarded them with a mix of disdain and curiosity, Edelgard almost seemed petulant despite her best to keep her cool composure.

Ha! Yes, 1 point for Ferdinand von Aegir. Finally!

At the pavilion, he set his tea tray and pulled out her chair as a proper gentleman of his caliber should. The professor gave her nod of thanks and despite her lowborn background and her initial lack of tea-drinking finesse, sat herself down with a subtle air of elegance.

She placed some biscuits procured from her basket onto the fine porcelain plate of his tea set, and following the biscuits, came a rather shoddy copper kettle. It had a dent on its spout, some chips on its wooden handle, and its body was wrapped in cloth to keep the tea warm.

It looked out of place in the pavilion with his fine porcelain.

Flummoxed, he could only stare at the tawny metal ware. _That _was where she brewed her tea? While his tea set wasn’t the most lavish brewing kit (those were saved at his family estate), it was certainly better than what she presented.

Perhaps her mercenary life was far bleaker than he initially imagined. All the more fortunate that she was in his presence for what could be her first proper tea-time. While someone of his status, like his father, would have taken one look at the kettle and become downright contemptuous at its state, Ferdinand had more grace than his father.

The efforts went unnoticed by the mercenary. She did not seem embarrassed as she poured from the woebegone kettle with the same calm air, creating an odd juxtaposition. Her movements were refined. One hand on the lid, steadying the old kettle with the tips of her fingers, her other hand at the handle, tilting it just enough to smoothly fill the cups without spilling a single drop.

Such a contrast indeed. Were all commoners like this? Full of riddles in their character?

“Professor, do commoners take tea the way you do?” He dared ask but corrected halfway to lessen the possibility of offense, “You seem experienced.”

“A former member of my father’s company became an etiquette instructor of some sorts.” She finished pouring.

“Mercenaries know of such things?”

“They weren’t exactly mercenaries. Or that wasn’t their only occupation. Besides…” Cups filled, she set the kettle on the table and grasped her own cup and saucer after he took his own. “On jobs that require me to be hidden in plain sight, knowing how to mimic the general crowd to a certain extent has its uses.”

“What sort of jobs?” Ah, the woodsy smell of Almyran Pine. A good choice. He could only hope it tasted as good as its selection and not the quality of its kettle.

“Apprehending assassination attempts or partaking in them.”

“Oh.”

Sometimes he forgets. As peaceful and unassertive as she looked at that moment, tasting her tea, mercenaries were contract killers. His imagination could envision it: a shy girl in a maiden’s dress and a hooded shawl passing by a wealthy merchant who was blissfully unaware of his impending doom. Somehow, right beneath the notice of his guards, the merchant would start choking on his own blood and the girl would vanish.

Ferdinand shuddered inwardly at the thought. He had seen his professor’s knack for stealth. How, not a few seconds into yet another spar with Caspar, she maneuvered behind the brash young man and held him close and still with a very real and very sharp dagger against his neck. The quietness in which it had been done had raised the hairs on his neck and rendered Caspar uncharacteristically mute for the rest of that lesson.

Mildly unsettled, he stared at the brown liquid then took a cautious sip.

And Ferdinand von Aegir froze, because the tea was delicious.

Distinct and earthy, without a hint of that distastefully acrid aftertaste that came from the amateur move of over-steeping the finely prepped needles of Almyran Pine, he would go as far to say it was perfect.

To think it was brewed within that shabby looking kettle

He almost felt chagrin at his initial hesitance, having mentally prepared himself to consume awful tea because it wouldn’t be proper to invalidate the efforts of a novice. Considering the lacking state of her tea set, he had assumed her brewing skills would be lacking as well.

“Professor, you are a woman of many talents. This tea is marvelous.”

“Thank you.”

….

How peculiar. She had the background of a commoner, yet she postured herself with the grace of a noble. The etiquette lessons were clearly seen in her motion. As pleasing as it should be to see such manners at the tea table, Ferdinand couldn’t shake the stiffness surrounding his company.

It must have been the silence. In all the propriety her figure carried, her conversational efforts had been lacking. He wasn’t one to mind taking the lead in any conversation, but when in the company of someone blank as a statue, it was a bit much. 

So, he cleared his throat. “Hrm… Tea is better in the company of another, is it not?”

“It tastes the same.” Her remark had no ill will, but the brutal honesty made Ferdinand wince.

“Is… it not more enjoyable?” Surely his company was better than that of a cat’s.

Tilting her head, she regarded his words. “Enjoyable?”

“Yes. Having tea is a social indulgence as much as it is a private one. Great relationships are formed over tea.”

“… I see.” A social indulgence? An alien perspective in Byleth’s opinion.

_Or maybe you’re the alien._

Ignoring the snark of her mental companion, she mulled over her student’s words. It wasn’t an entirely foreign concept to her, to have tea in such a manner, but she would hardly call those situations indulgent. She tended to have her mug of tea in the solitude of silence. Her father’s mercenaries were the type to talk over ale in a raucous tavern rather than tea.

What did one converse about over tea?

_They forwent their physical exercise for a more mental one. Staring at the cards placed on the cloth covered crate, she asked him one of her many questions. He was different from many others, willing to humor her curiosity and not stray away from her aberrant tendencies. For that she was grateful of his company. _

_“What do you talk about when you sit there in their pavilion?.. Ask them about what they might enjoy. A book, a past time, an experience, simply, innate things about their home. and their accomplishments Nobles here who dwell mostly in peace without the threats of war and destitution tend to enjoy talking about themselves.” His chuckle was low, almost mocking as he rested a hand on his hip while the other waved airily. “If you wish to keep topics and attentions bland, shallow, but pleasing, do that, and they should leave you be.”_

An internal sigh snapped her out of her reverie. The sound was slowly becoming Sothis’s trademark.

_Let’s rephrase that train of thought. What do you willingly want to talk about over tea?_

Nothing.

_What are you curious about._

Anything she was curious about? If she was curious about anything, she would figure it out through observation.

_Oh for- then why are you even doing this? Stop wasting time._

Curiosity? The young man clearly wanted something from her to go out of his way to request her company like this. She wasn’t entirely unaware, but there were far better tea-time companions than someone like her.

Sothis had a point. She should stop wasting time and ask.

“… Is there anything you want?”

“Want?” Ferdinand tilted his head, resembling a perplexed puppy that has heard something foreign.

“Yes. Any… favors or gifts?”

“Gifts?” He parroted. Taken aback for a brief moment, he recovered quickly with a smile. “I suppose, but for now I am very content with this one you have given me.”

“This one?” It was her turn to be confused.

“Why gift of your personal time, professor. It means that you care for us outside of academic boundaries.”

Ah…

What an odd situation and an odd sensation. Her time in this monastery seemed to be filled with these oddities where she would come across new stimuli to process. What did one say to such a statement spoken with those earnest, carrot colored eyes? His proclamation was simple, rationally accurate, yet the mere thought of deeming his reason trivial didn’t feel right. It also brought up another question.

The knowledge that she cared for them… Was that really an important concept for them to know?

_The animals seek your affection. _Sothis rolled her eyes and stretched like a languid cat, _Is it so odd that your students would as well?_

“Professor?”

Her silence must have been longer than natural again.

“Forgive me. I’m not accustomed it.” She confessed, mulling over the newfound detail carefully. “It did not occur to me that you wished to know such things. Do your peers share your opinion?”

The sincerity in his eyes never waned, but his smile did, replaced by a thoughtful frown.

“While I’m not sure if their knowledge of tea trumps mine, I have little doubt that this tea-time will make me an even greater source of envy.”

“Envy?” Now she felt like the lost puppy.

“Yes” He chuckled, relishing the thought of his rival’s possible jealousy before remembering himself and the matter at hand. “You’re so distant on your own, professor. It can cause doubts on whether or not you enjoy your time with us. Whether we are more of an obligation than a source of content for you.”

She blinked, flickering her gaze back to her own cup before focusing back on him and once again, she was silent.

Did he overstep and take his assumptions too far?

“You are correct in that it is an obligation.”

Ah, now this statement truly stung him. Was this woman truly so cold as the rumors believed?

“I see… then…” should he apologize for wasting her time? Or admonish her on her pragmatism? She was his superior, not his fellow student or anything in that likeness. It wouldn’t be proper… but surely, noble or not, such callousness was unreasonable and wrong wasn’t it?

It technically didn’t hinder her results. She was a meticulous instructor who was strangely patient yet unyielding. Despite her aloofness outside of class, within the academy, she’s proven herself capable. She’s quieted Caspar’s raucous tendencies, coaxed Bernadetta out of her isolation during class sessions (they had all been gobsmacked at that, even Hubert), and at some point, by some miracle, kept Lindhart willingly awake for an entire lesson.

Most importantly, she wasn’t a noble but a commoner, a mercenary. Perhaps it was unfair of him to hope that she would see something more in her work as their professor than it just being a task that put coin in her coffers.

Her next words paused his train of thought.

“It is defined by the contract. I am your professor. You are my students. I have a responsibility… But I do not dislike it.” She seemed thoughtful, gentle even, despite her stoicism. That ease in her body returned, the one she had prior when she sat on that bench. “The responsibility is not burdensome to me, but it is a bit foreign… I’m unfamiliar with being sought for attention.”

Ah, not the most heartwarming statement he’s heard but coming from her, it was enough to lift the coldness seeping doubt into his initial boldness.

“But your mercenaries regard you very highly.” They’ve fought with her mercenaries and it was clear. They followed her orders in such a manner that would make military men like Caspar’s father praise their coordination and loyalty.

“Our leadership and management of the company has proven to be more profitable and less lethal for their livelihood than if they were to adopt the way of a lone sell sword. It is only prudence.” She elaborated blandly, “ On the battlefield, I am respected… but I can hardly say that respect is coupled with affection. Fear would be a more likely companion. When it comes to camaraderie and morale, my father plays the role of beloved leader.” She sipped her tea for a moment’s breath and continued,

“But you and the others are different. You do not regard me with the same fear as they do.”

“That’s… good then?” He pressed hopefully. Perhaps it wasn’t the same fear, but he was certain the Black Eagles-himself included-also feared her to a degree. How could they not when the woman would gut a man with her sword while using another as a live meat shield against a volley of arrows? All with an expression more halfhearted than Lindhart’s when he was forced to be physical in a spar.

“That depends on perspective.” She deadpanned, “Personally, I am not against it. Though I have been told… fear is an excellent teacher.”

Ferdinand almost flinched, swallowing hot tea with a nervous gulp. “I-I’m sure that won’t be necessary! We Black Eagles are plenty motivated without fear.” Goddess knows what sort of training method this woman could concoct behind that cryptic face of hers.

“Hm. So you say.” She took a quiet sip, a motion mirrored uneasily by the young Aegir heir. He needed to change the subject. Quickly.

“So… you like cats?”

….

Tea with Lorenz Hellman Gloucester had been a splendid affair, and he had his professor to thank for that. After he shared his woes in lacking teatime companions of his caliber, the woman all but hunted down the proper candidate. For someone who lacked knowledge of certain social norms, she was rather astute. The Alliance noble was as every bit as refined and noble as he was, even in the art of tea. Their discussion of possible altercations in agricultural practices and trade exchange between their respective regions was invigorating, and it had him walking with a fine spring in his step.

…A spring that promptly faltered at the déjà vu sight of a certain lady sitting on a bench with that same mug, wicker basket, and shoddy kettle. Why was she here again? Had she not enjoyed tea at the pavilion with him? Had it made any future endeavors in bridging the gap between her and her students even harder? Impossible. Surely, his pseudo lesson on the art of teatime hadn’t been such an abhorrent experience that she resorted back to her isolated ways permanently. Perhaps he needed to proceed in repetition.

This time she did not have work with her, though there was still a cat present. It was a bright orange tabby. The cat was licking crumbs from an empty plate resting atop her wicker basket.

“Professor, you’re here again.” He schooled his voice to conceal the concern brewing in his mind.

“Yes, I am.”

“Alone again?”

“For the moment.” She tilted her head and blinked, “Lysithea was having cake with me.”

“Lysithea?” The young, silver haired student from golden deer? Could it be she was on more familiar terms with other houses than she was with her own? He couldn’t recall anyone from Black Eagles house bragging or mentioning ever sharing desserts with their professor. Though lately, many of them expressed their happiness and content over being invited to have tea with Professor Eisner BY Professor Eisner.

“I’m afraid there’s no more cake, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Her words snapped his attention back. “Ah, it’s alright professor. I’m surprised you’re having tea here again.”

“Why is that?”

“I must admit, it seems a bit unorthodox. Was the pavilion we partook tea at not to your liking?”

He was met with that distinct silence and that same calm regard she always bore. As if she were assessing not his abilities or his worth but his existence. It made little sense why it was so, but such scrutiny was as enigmatic as it was vulnerable.

After her pause, she gestured to the vacant space on the bench beside her. No words were needed to comprehend the invitation. He mumbled his thanks and accept the seat, feeling uncharacteristically timid when he sat. There was something about this setting, the quiet, and the manner in which they sat side by side that felt more intimate than time at the pavilion. 

“Tea?” Her offer momentarily brought him out of his reverie.

“Thank you.” It was a mug… Not his spare porcelain teacup he so generously gifted to her along with a more proper tea set after their session.

Did she not like the gift? Or was it a commoner thing? Then again, bringing a nice tea set to a loitering area as this one wouldn’t be convenient.

“Our company settled temporarily in a village off the coast of Boramas. I do not recall much, but I remember admiring the shore from the porch of a seaside cottage.”

He turned, realizing he had spoken his musing out loud. While she did not meet his gaze, content to set her eyes forward and stare into the distance, she carried on.

“I’d stay there with a fisherman and his wife, too young to accompany father to work. Sometimes… when the men were away on jobs and the weather was nice, the wife and I would sit on a bench placed on the porch. We would sit there with mugs like these and watch the tide.”

There was a subtle dip in her chin as she looked to her own mug, cupped between her slender hands.

“… She was very kind.”

Byleth spoke more to herself than to her company.

The fisherman and his wife… their faces were blurred, hidden behind the fog of fickle memory but she remembered the woman’s eyes being green as the shore before them. And those eyes, no matter how hazy everything about that time was, she would always remember those eyes for they were among the seldom few that looked upon her without caution… as though she were a normal child whose humanity remained intact and unblemished. In those days and in that sort of teatime, they were unfettered by propriety or ulterior motive. There hadn’t been a single need to blend in, a unique moment where she did not need to put upon a faux face in an attempt to hide away the deviance of her being.

It was hypnotic how her faraway eyes fostered curiosity within him like spring blooms when the weather warmed. Were all commoners like this? Full of sweet melancholy? No... alas, there was an undeniable, quiet charm that couldn’t quite be defined as the trait of a commoner but as a trait that was solely the Professor’s own.

“This monastery. It has a nice view.”

His grasp on the mug shifted, no longer holding the handle in favor of cupping its curve. Everything about this setting was so simple and yet in its simplicity, it was heartwarming… serene.

The amber lit sunset brought an elusive edge of green in the shading of her hair and a soft glow to her skin, shadowed by the indent of her exposed collar and delicate curve of her jaw.

“Yes. It’s lovely.” The words escaped his lips like a sudden breath.

A nod and unless it was the trick of the setting sunlight, he could have sworn he saw a ghost of a smile curving her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I am so sorry for this excruciatingly long delay and that this is the only chapter after such a long silence. I haven't given up in the slightest, but to be honest, it's been pretty rough. Holistic health just spiraled downhill and to add to it, a lot of other personal problems and obligations ensued. Haven't been able to just sit my tired ass down and just write/edit a good, solid chunk of what brings me joy.  
This draft has been in my drive for months, and it's been so infuriating because every time I go over it, there was always something else and something more that I found wasn't good enough.  
Eventually, as you can see, I recently came to a point of saying 'Fuck it" and posted it. If there are grammatical errors, I'm sorry. I'm always trying to do better. (I've been playing God of War and Dado Kratos has giving me life lessons). This is all to say that for those of you still reading, thank you so much for not giving up on it and thus on me. Please read and review when you can! I'm still new to connecting with the fandom like this, but its encouraging. 
> 
> On a lighter note, so many things happened in the gaming world before I posted this chapter. BYLETH IS IN SMASH, YEAH BABY, I KNEW LORD SAKURAI WOULD ADD THEM. MY HERO. The man is the OG Fire Emblem fanboy. Proud to say that I killed every last one of them with Byleth in a neighborhood smash gathering (majority of my smash bros were salty about Byleth, and it made the massacre taste sweeter than a cup of Sweet Apple Tea). Also finished Blue Lions maddening mode, currently in the process of Golden Deer and Black Eagles maddening mode while waiting for the DLC with the Ashen Wolves.


	4. Jeralt and Sothis: the tethers between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What I hope is a heartfelt excerpt into Jeralt's life as a single father, and the start of a very unique bond between Sothis and Byleth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to spew out two whole chapters including this one, because I've been quiet for too long.... but the second chapter (hint: Golden Deer) ended up being over 20 something pages so I think I'll just split that into two chapters and post them together shortly after this one. Sorry if you were expecting the precious deer ^^;;. They'll make their appearance soon!

**Year 1167**

Snow. It caked these peaks in layers. The fresh flakes were soft fine powders, easily swayed by wind or by the trudging steps of fur lined boots, but the older layers beneath were packed and pressed to a degree of stubborn malleability. It made the hike through these mountains more of a chore. One wrong foot forward and one would find themself slipping and sliding. While that made for a comical display on the incline, the times they had to cross or walk beside ravines made the trek a precarious affair. Winter always came early in these northern regions, or perhaps it never truly left.

One would think that he would have a nostalgic sense of fondness for it, being born in Fhaergus after all. But that was a long time ago, almost long forgotten under the great weight of his longevity, overshadowed by the events of recent years. Now, Jeralt could only regard the snow with some trepidation if not annoyance. Central Faerghus was bitterly cold from valley to hill, but these mountains even more so. The members of his mercenary troupe, although small in number, were hardy men and women. Still, judging by the sound of their heaving breathes in the thin air, this journey was a struggle.

Which made him wonder how his child faired.

Byleth kept pace beside him. Now eight (or nine? what moon was it?), she was still a small thing. Knee deep in snow, bundled under the thick furs of a massive wolf pelt made by one of their own after a hunt, his daughter almost resembled a Sreng nomad of the far northeast. She showed no visible signs of distress or voiced a single peep of complaint, not even a sigh. Her eyes, vacant, ever watching, and almost too big for her petite little head, gazed onward from the bundle of fur and cloth.

At first glimpse, she seemed fine. However, he knew-or at least was learning to be- better.

There was a subtle tremor in her body. It shook the clouds of her breath and the furs swallowing her frame. At this altitude, one could have easily mistaken it for the wind.

Call it paranoia, a parent’s hyper-awareness, or his experience fathering an unreadable child, but Jeralt’s dormant worry became alert in an instant. His little girl was shivering.

“You alright, kid?”

She gave him a nod. Still never saying much, though thankfully not a complete mute as he once dreaded she might be a few years back.

“You sure?”

She turned this time, blinking owlishly at him, fluttering the snowflakes resting on those long lashes in the process. Widening her stance in the snow, she nodded again. Her posture almost looked stubborn. If she were like any other child her age, Jeralt would have guessed she was pouting under her covers.

“Alright.” He smiled, kneeling to tuck the cloak closer to her person. “We should be off this mountain by tomorrow’s dawn at this pace.” But the smile faded into a frown as soon as he unveiled the lower half of her face.

Her lips were pale and blued, and it made him pause. His military bearing hid the unease writhing within. Those pale lips reminded him of times he would rather forget. Feelings he would rather abandon. But regret was like an mithril shackle tethered to a heavy burden. Even after all these years, with time adding rust to the chains, it still remained. With it, were the haunts.

In the aftermath of extinguishing rebellions, he had walked through the dead, head held high with that blinding pride in his beliefs for his cause, all for that archbishop… until he caught sight of a young soldier. More boy than man. Helm torn away to reveal an empty gaze socketed in skin that still had a lingering flush. It was a fresh corpse, a recent death(kill). The soldier’s (boy’s) mouth was ajar, framed by lips of that same paling blue that stained hers.

She shuffled, breaking him out of his gruesome recollection back to his current conundrum.

He chose this harsh path for its obscurity. Rumors had spread of the Blade Breaker’s presence in Faerghus, and not too long after, a stir of activity from churches here began to occur. It could have been a mere coincidence. The Western Church has been the source of more than one round of tavern gossip as of late, but fatherhood made him a wary man. He refused to take the chance and routed his crew onto this path, out of the Holy Kingdom and onto Alliance borders.

His company, thankfully, hadn’t questioned the detour. The handful that knew more than the rest the reason for his caution held enough seniority and respect in the ranks to stir unanimous cooperation. But now with the sight of his quiet child shivering while knee deep in snow, he second guessed his own choice. He wasn’t the only one.

“Sir, maybe we outta set up camp in the ol’ woods a league from here.” Brady came from behind his daughter, his towering, cloaked form shielded some of the icy winds as he leaned forward for a view of her face. With a ‘tsk’, his eyes narrowed, creasing the scar etched through an eyelid and brow. “Lil’ missy ain’t lookin too peachy.”

Brady, he was a tough man of contradictions and mystery. But Jeralt was no stranger to having personal secrets. Many mercenaries weren’t. Besides, in the midst of the confidentiality there was one thing Brady made clear that overshadowed all else. The man genuinely cared for the girl as though she were his ward.

“I’m fine.” His daughter finally spoke. Her toneless little voice piped out harsher than intended in an attempt to fight the stutter that came with chattering teeth.

Resilient little thing she was…And those villagers accused of her of having no life or spirit.

His wife would have surmised her grit as a trait she inherited from him.

A playful voice interrupted his musing. “Tell Brady that when you’re not looking so blue, bluebell.”

A second figure came, carrying himself with an air of ease emphasized by his cheery, lopsided smile. It belied the impressive quiet in his footsteps despite the snow; the dangerous tell of a talented assassin.

“We could use some rest before preparing for the border. Lovely ladies at our last settlements mentioned that things in Galatea territory haven’t been too pleasant as of late after their poor harvest.” His smile shifted to a flat smirk. “Poor folk don’t make pleasant folk. I wouldn’t be surprised if we have to deal with some gangs.” Dark eyes went to Byleth, and almost immediately, the smirk stretched into a smile more sincere.

“Speaking of lovely ladies, we can’t have our own in such a state. Want me to carry you, sweet flower?”

“…”

The girl didn’t spare the honeyed words and nicknames a glance as she began marching off towards the path ahead. Her indifference earned her chuckles and the band continued their way, but this time with a renewed haste to make camp by Jeralt’s new orders.

Meanwhile, Brady remained by the girl’s side this time and began another spontaneous lesson in sorcery.

“Remember your balance?” He rubbed his hands together before performing a basic incantation. A ball of flame steadily grew in the empty space between his palms until it was the size of a lantern. “None of that willy-nillyness this time. Keep it steady and by the gods, ya better control it. I don’t want ya burnin’ a whole meadow again.”

“But there is no meadow here.” She deadpanned.

“Ya know what I mean, cheeky brat. Now quit yappin and start sparkin.”

While Jeralt found his companion’s loose jargon a bit peculiar, his daughter did not seem to mind. Following the man’s example, her pale- to Jeralt’s growing worry they also looked a bit blue-hands mirrored Brady. After a moment of quiet, a flame the size of a beetroot pulsated to life between her palms.

“Atta’ girl. That should thaw your lil’ paws out. Now have it shift to your right...”

The gruff mercenary was one of the few Jeralt trusted wholeheartedly for this very reason. He and his companions, who all joined his business simultaneously, were the first few who treated Byleth with a degree of decency that warmed and relieved him. They never found her strangeness eerie enough to be worthy of isolation. She was a bright child in their eyes, Jeralt’s daughter, not some changeling or cursed babe.

They settled camp in the woods, pitching their tent atop a layer of pine boughs to stave off the cold. Soon, with some magic, the campfires were started and with the campfires came a lax wave of good morale. Hushed but content, the conversations warmed up moods quickly.

Orders weren’t needed. His men knew the routine by now, and those who did not know were taught by the veterans. It had been a long and arduous journey. The fact that his men endured it without complaint made him a grateful man. He wanted to thank them, to treat them well on this night, perhaps by fishing or hunting for a hearty stew. But his urgency surpassed that courtesy.

Jeralt quickly sat Byleth on a tree stump close to the fire before the girl could slink off and assist in whatever chores she found. She shivered less, but her lips were still blue.

Undoing his winter cloak, he draped it over her and chuckled as it dwarfed the girl before sitting on the floor beside her. For him the cold was uncomfortable but not unbearable with the flame and the wool of his tunic.

Yet she stared, daresay accusingly, earning a chuckle.

“I can handle a little cold, kid. Don’t worry about me.”

But her stare did not cease, and instead, Byleth proceeded to rise from her perch. Careful to not drag the end of his cloak on the ground, she resembled a very poufy lamb as she tottered around him and all but dumped his own cloak over his shoulder with a heave of her little arms. She then rerouted herself to his front and waited almost expectantly.

It amazed him sometimes, how Byleth could communicate with him so clearly despite her blank countenance and selective mutism.

He sighed and adjusted his position, sitting himself cross legged on a horse blanket spread beside the stump and patted his leg in invitation.

As a bird would settle into a nest, his daughter carefully nestled herself onto his lap. Under the layers and the fur, she was still so small compared to his hulking form. The top of her fur hooded head barely tickled his scruff.

So small but certainly growing and growing quickly. He could still recall with fresh clarity, the times he held her to his torso with nothing more than a sash and a steady hand.

As a babe she had fit into his palm, small and quiet, frighteningly so. A silent, swaddled bundle, equally fragile as she was anomalous. There had been countless moments he’d been beside himself with anxiety, barely staying afloat in the grief at losing his wife and the fear of Rhea by pouring all his efforts at the task at hand to keep Byleth healthy and safe.

So many sleepless nights and trying days, always on the move from town to town. The earlier days of her infancy had been the most difficult of times. On more than one occasion, village mothers that Jeralt sought as wet nurses staunchly refused to feed Byleth for fear of her listless behavior. A newborn that never cried, not even a whimper…

.

_The farmer’s wife, a doting mother of six, had been waiting for him outside her cottage’s fence, pacing back and forth her cobblestone steps. Discomfort was evident in her round face. She held a familiar bundle in her hand. _

_ He barely had time to jump off his steed when she all but shoved the bundle into his arms. _

_“I don’t want nothing to do with this baby. You can take your coin back, sir.” She hissed any traces of kindness gone from her tired countenance. “Take your coin and leave us be.”_

_ When he secured the babe in his arms, she recoiled._

_There hadn’t been signs of a scuffle and his child looked unharmed. He took a job of improving the village’s security against raids and had been training a few of the young men with lances. _

_“Did something happen?”_

_The woman shook her head, keeping her distance, fear evident in her eyes as she stared into his arms as though he held a rabid, flea infested creature._

_“That child… that... that **thing.** It’s **wrong. **A monster, I tell you. A monster. Me husband and I are sure of it.” She shuddered, “It doesn’t cry. Doesn’t utter a peep o’ sound. I say it doesn’t even blink.”_

_She fumbled around her skirt until she pulled out a pouch of coin from her apron’s pocket. The quivering cash held it out for him to take. _

_Was it his mercy or his own fears that muffled the rage simmering in his gut? With a numb hand, he took back his payment. The weight of the coin and the child in his grasp anchored him back to reality._

_“It has no soul, Mr. Griel. Methinks it should be taken to the church to-”_

_“Was she fed?” There was steel in his voice, a clear warning to cease her ill talks of his child._

_“…L-last feeding was in the afternoon.” The woman confessed, wrapping her shawl around herself more tightly._

_It was almost midnight. While he was no nursemaid, he knew that infants needed frequent feedings._

_He looked at his child. Like always, she stared with that gut twisting vacancy. Was she hungry? It was so hard to tell until her little belly started gurgling, but he couldn’t starve his daughter until her body said what she didn’t._

_Their eyes met then, and Byleth blinked. She began to squirm an arm loose from the swaddling cloth. A pale little hand with five little nails, fingers stretched out, pudgy but slight, reached for his face. _

_He heard the woman’s sharp breath but did not spare her a glance as he secured the pouch to his belt and obliged his child with a pinky. _

_The small hand was warm. Warm and surprisingly firm. It pulled and tugged demandingly until he acquiesced, allowing Byleth to guide his rough pinky until it neared her mouth. Those cupid bow lips opened and without further ado, his little Byleth began to suckle as though it were a teat. _

_His lungs released a sigh of relief, but his heart sank. The closest inn was an entire night’s ride from here, and there was no guarantee there would be a wet nurse available in the immediate vicinity_

_“…One more night.” He did not look away from his child. _

_“Come again?”_

_“One more night.” His turned to her then. “We’ll be out of your land by dawn. Just have us for one more night.”_

_“… I…” She faltered, her previous ire deflating at the beseeching gaze of the mercenary. Imposing and reserved as he was, the man who went by Greil was a good man. “Sir, I don’t know if-”_

_“Please. This child the only thing I have left.” _

_There was no one else. He outlived his family; broke his oath of knighthood; left the friends, brothers in arms, he knew; he burned the all bridges of his past the moment he set that fire in the monastery… all except one. Call his child soulless or a demon, but she was the last gift his wife bequeathed him. She was living proof of memories he held so dear._

_ He could see her conflict written in the crease of her brow and the purse of her lip. Uneasy she may be, but she was a parent herself. In the end, the sympathy to his plight won over her paranoia. _

_“You’ll have to stay in the barn. Me husband… H-he’s a hard-working man and a good da, Mr. Greil, but he’s a stubborn one. He’s out hunting. I fear he won’t take kindly to seeing that th-… that babe again. He thinks it be a demon. Might try to get rid of it for the good of our folk.”_

_Byleth’s little grip tethered his hand from reaching for his blade in a surge of fury, but the woman shrank at the shadow darkening his gaze._

_“I don’t want no trouble with you, Mr. Greil. Your girl ain’t a natural babe but she yours. I-I’ll feed her one more time, but best you milk our goat. It won’t do good for a babe to drink only that in the long run, but it should last ‘til you find a proper maid. I get you a spare bottle…”_

_“…Thank you.” Jeralt released a bone-weary sigh. _

That woman had been the first of many to shy away from Byleth. Some even slammed doors in his face while others would only be convinced after more coin was offered. Ascertaining that his precious little cargo wasn’t underfed had always been a niggling anxiety in the back of his mind. He’d come across orphans born and raised in their early years in poverty or neglect before nuns would take them in. They were sickly and feeble. Most would never live to see the next winter end and the flowers bloom. The mere thought that Byleth could end up that way almost drove him to despair. It had been a miracle he himself didn’t turn frail from the stress alone in the first few months.

Yet there was fruit in those first few months. Moments he, despite the anguish and toil, cherished deeply. While he sat there in silence with Byleth roosting in his warmth, he began revisiting the earlier pages of his journal, thawing himself in the memory inscribed within the ink.

The father and daughter pair earned a fair amount of amused stares with their little seating arrangement.

A steaming, aromatic cup came into view, interrupting the Blade Breaker’s reminiscence. In the spiced mixture of scents, he could detect cinnamon and citrus.

“Mulled wine, sir?” It was him again, but this time he brought more than his smile and playful words.

Mulled wine?

At his inquiry, the man explained. A few of them had used their spare coin to buy some bottles of cheap wine and spices from the last town and proceeded to concoct some much-needed hot beverage. Soon, tins of the spiced alcohol were being passed and conversations came to life.

It was comforting to see. When he started the company, it had been on a whim, an incentive to provide his child more than just a week’s worth of food in her belly. Through impromptu gatherings and shared tavern tabs that happened when sell swords crossed paths under amiable circumstances, he somehow rallied enough decent fighters to start this rough business. Somehow, his modest, hodgepodge group of independent fighters evolved into a unified squadron that had enough comradery for a few to eagerly share the comforts of good liquor with the majority.

So, while he was more of a mead drinker than a wine one, Jeralt welcomed the warm liquor.

“Thanks”

“Anytime, commander!” The man was still had two more steaming cups still in his hands. Smiling cheerfully as ever, he squatted down to Byleth’s makeshift throne on her father’s lap.

“When you’re older, I’ll share a drink with you.” He winked, and both father and daughter wore equally blank faces, unamused. But the cheerful man only laughed. “For now, here’s some lavender tea.”

She grasped the tin cup in both hands. Jeralt heard her quiet sip and small huff of a sigh, causing him to smile behind the lip of his own drink.

“Thank you, Inigo.” Her gratitude was muted but earnest. The girl seldom spoke and when she spoke, she rarely called out names. Both father and mercenary knew it.

The dark eyed man lifted his casual smile into a warmer grin. “Of course, Bluebell! Take that, Brady, one point to Inigo. Today is my lucky day!”

Jeralt lowered his mug. “What’s that?”

Inigo huffed. “He’s not vocal about it, but the bloke is all too pleased about being ‘her favorite’. It’s unacceptable. I won’t let him have her after all the others.”

“The others?”

“Yeah, the women flock to him like moths to a flame!”

“_Brady? _Your kidding._”_ It was another mercenary, one who passed by their campfire and overheard the ridiculous proclamation. The gruff, scarred, perpetually scowling Brady?

“You laugh now but I don’t jest. He makes for an awful wingman!”

“Hahaha! Maybe the goddess cursed you, mate. Brady? Last time we went into town, he made the village tykes bawl.”

“Well let me tell you…”

The banter bounced back and forth, eventually turning into a story that attracted more to their fire, Brady included, who only rolled his eyes.

The chatter was noisy, the mulled wine was too sweet, but Jeralt was content and that contentment only deepened when he looked down at his child.

Color returned to her cheeks and lips, bringing back the cherub glow of her fair skin. And although it was likely her face remained a blank slate, he could feel her ease further into his warmth like a pliant cat with her pale little hands cupping her tea.

It was moments like this, not time itself, that eroded the shackles away. This sense of contentment that helped him endure and lightened the invisible yoke on his shoulders.

* * *

**.**

**Year 1180, Great Tree Moon, Garreg Mach Monastery**

Moving did not involve much hassle. More often than not, mercenaries were nomads. They migrated towards regions in turmoil as animals would migrate where their food source moved. Peace meant risking unemployment and pennilessness, while conflict meant coin. Moving often, from one place to another with no finite place to call ‘home’ meant packing smart and packing light with only the necessities.

Thus there were only three pieces of luggage on her person as she made her way to her new quarters. A drawstring pack, single strapped, patched and mended aplenty, hanging over her shoulder, the parcel gifted to her by her father and the church, and some bundled, rolled, and buckled equipment secured in pockets and along the strap of her pack.

_That’s all you own?_

An average person would have dropped their belongings in fright. Fortunately, Byleth had more bearing than the average person. She took a short glance at the spectral figure hovering beside her, blinking twice before returning her sights forward. Two monks passed by without sparing Byleth and her gravity defying companion a second glance. A clear indication that only she could see the entity.

_and YET you’re ignoring me!_ Sothis seemed to vanish in her periphery, only for her voice to become louder, more irked within her mind. This ability to project herself in this metaphysical form was a new development, one that did not last too long.

“Sorry.” She muttered, passing by the doors of the dormitory.

This new aspect of her life was still so alien in a number of ways. In the short time she has come to comprehend Sothis’s existence, the girl has revealed herself to be lively and outspoken- if not easily cantankerous-a stark contrast to her mellowed nature. Yet she seemed to exist within herself, or at least in a place that only Byleth can sense. And as odd as the idea of this… coexistence was… it felt natural, a sensation that overrode the invasiveness of the situation.

Her designated room was the second to last one on the first floor of this building. First floors were convenient. She could go out without commotion, without having to consider anyone living beneath her floor or walking the hall-not that she was one to make much a ruckus and trudge around to begin with.

The room must have been recently cleaned, there was a lack of dust spiraling in the streams of sunlight leaking through the windows. A bed large enough for a single person stood against the wall to her left. At its opposite end was a shelved desk and a chair, supplied with a new candle perched on a brass holder, a stack of parchment, a Pegasus feather quill, and bottle of ink. Some efforts must have been made to make her feel welcomed. Even the low cabinet, stretched to the length of the wall beneath the window, was stocked with a woven basket, a pitcher, and a cup.

_It’s small. _Sothis appeared again, mirroring her perusal.

Quaint was a better word for it. The place was cozy, tranquil in a way she seldom experienced that it was almost peculiar. It wasn’t as though Remire Village hadn’t been a pleasant place. If anything, it had been one of the better places they settled in. The villagers had been kind and welcoming of her and her father despite them being outsiders with a penchant for fighting. A far cry contrast to other settlements in the past.

Mercenaries weren’t necessarily frowned upon but neither were they frequently embraced, and those who bore her reputation were regarded with trepidation.

Having a bed to sleep in and a desk to write at was a nice luxury, but it was odd. This room would be a place she could call hers for a time perhaps longer than any.

_You think it’s quaint, cozy, and tranquil and all that, but you do not like it?_

It wasn’t that. It was just… different. Strange. She lived most of her nights gazing at the stars, listening to chirping crickets or snoring men, bundled up on a bed roll near a campfire or leaning against a tree, not in a bed of clean sheets with a feathered pillow. She scouted the sky and the land by standing atop hills, trees, and cliffs, not gazing out at windows of a monastery built upon a mountain.

_All the more reason why it’s strange that they picked you to be a teacher._

Yes, it was strange… and this was from the mouth of a girl only she could see and hear. The irony was almost worthy of a snort if it didn’t sow in a seed of foreboding. She had a feeling things were only going to get stranger with each step forward.

However, such matters were trivial. What was imperative was having herself a bit more settled in this place. She felt… unsteady being here and all but saddled with this new role among other things.

She set her pack onto her chair and the parcel on the shelf. Untying the drawstring, she rummaged through her pack. To her phantom companion’s wonder, the first object she pulled out appeared to be wrapped in soft pink cloth tucked by twine. With precise hands, she undid the twine and unraveled the cloth, revealing a…. box?

_What is that?_

Byleth said nothing as she secured the wooden box into a corner of the desk’s lower shelf. The simple placement acted as an anchor to her figurative ship, easing the tension that had wracked her body since meeting Rhea and separating from her father.

It only further stirred Sothis’s curiosity. The box was barely larger than her palm with signs of subtle wear slightly chipping the corners of the dark, lacquered wood. A delicate pattern resembling vines and flora was etched onto the surface of the lid, tracing the edges and around the twin gold hinges latched at the back. The etching wasn’t entirely symmetrical. As it curved to the right side, past the lid, it swirled and stopped at what appeared to be a hole. It was far more decorative than her other items she had seen thus far, and dare she say it was packed with a carefulness closer to reverence within that silken rose-pink cloth. It clearly served a purpose that was more personal than functional for her pragmatic host.

Byleth moved to unpack the rest of her belongings, leaving the box unopened and unexplained to the phantom girl. Her small frown began curling into a scowl. She and her curiosity will not be ignored, especially by the only person that could see her. But before she could voice her complaint, her host answered in the most peculiar fashion.

As though a soft, weak candle was lit in a dark room, Sothis began to see a dim, flickering flow of memories unveil before her.

_A scarred, menacing face towering over her. Dark, narrowed eyes glaring… fondly? _

_ “Well d’ya like it?”_

_ Another, gentler face with an affectionate smirk. Such expression would have been sweeter if it weren’t for the melancholy nesting in his gaze._

_ “Something to remember us by.”_

_ “It ain’t gonna compare to the real sound, but at least ya have somethin’. A dancer without a good tune ain’t gonna dance to her fullest. Just ask him.”_

_…._

_ So sweet. So beautiful. Yet the melody was a mere echo of what it could be, a reminder of what it wasn’t. But it was what was left of a precious moment in time. So, she will preserve it with the care it deserved._

_ The world around her swayed and spun. Arch the foot, from the very tip. Curve the spine further and reach as though you’re reaching for the stars in the sky. And then wait for the applause._

_ But there was no applause. Not even a single clap followed by a string of corrections or instructions. Not anymore…_

Fragmented and hazy, it was disorienting. Sothis shook her head, seeking some equilibrium, and pressed her back against the tall stone of her seat.

_Gah! What in the world was that?_

Byleth paused in the midst of organizing the contents in her drawstring pack. On a whim, she had been attempting to share her answer through reminiscing; mentally unpacking as she physically followed, sifting, then releasing the memories into the place she imagined Sothis to dwell.

It was a success, but perhaps a bit overwhelming.

_Warn me next time!_

She gave a nod, noting the discovery along with many other bits and fragments of information into the recesses of her mind while she continued unpacking. Sothis sighed, muting her ire in favor of mulling over a realization.

_Your memory. It felt familiar to me. Like a dream I would forget the moment I wake._

In the moments where Byleth dreamed of her, she had always been sleeping on the throne until now. It was an interesting coincidence which meant it was anything but a coincidence.

Sothis hummed in agreement before resuming watching the girl unpack with a methodical air. Most of the pack’s contents were now utilitarian. A few clothes, a small sewing kit, some twine, a leather roll of blades, a whetstone, so on and so forth. Then Byleth unraveled dark shirt and from its nest, pulled out a simple pair of plain, ceramic mugs . She had it set beside the pitcher and began opening the parcel.

There was a pause. Blued eyes blinked slowly, and equally slow hands picked up the care package left by her father. It was subtle, but Sothis caught on quickly that her companion’s body expressed what the stoicism did not.

Three small, assorted boxes of tea. Almyran pine needles, Bergamot, and Chamomile; a bar of soap pricier than the standard judging by the scent and herbal fragments blending into the brick; two vials of oil, one lavender and the other rosemary; and lastly, a small palm sized bouquet of bluebells and heathers wrapped in twine.

Warmth coursed through, as if the sun was heating her stone throne. Was this… happiness? Tenderness? The stoic girl felt loved, that much Sothis could tell. But it was pricked with melancholy that she couldn’t understand.

How confusing and paradoxical it was to feel what she felt, to share her senses, recognize the base levels of her host’s muted feelings- feelings that, likely, Byleth herself couldn’t fully recognize-and yet find aspects of her thought’s process to be an enigma.

But one thing was clear. This confusion was mutual. Byleth’s thoughts were in a cautious dance around her, barely out of reach in wariness, unsure of how to proceed or process this conundrum of a co-existence, all imprisoned within a frame of pragmatism that Sothis could only describe as oddly stale.

It was frustrating, if not daunting, to exist in this bodiless, powerless state with this mortal as her only anchor, a mortal she was beginning to realize was an aberrant in her own way amongst her peers.

With that thought, a draft of cold bled into the staleness, consuming the warmth, and the thoughts that danced barely within reach seemed to distance themselves even more, receding into the darkness. And following the recession, she felt her corporeal form fade further from the physical world.

The frustration soon morphed into nervousness. Without knowing how, Sothis grasped onto the departing essence and forced her form to appear to Byleth once more. The sensation could only be described as stifling, as though she were wriggling and writhing herself out of a hole a few centimeters too small.

_Cease that!_

The recession ceased. Byleth paused in the midst of refolding her clothes and blinked at the faint, translucent being. Slowly but surely, the transparency began to bleed away as she acknowledged the entity’s wishes.

_Do not do that again. _Petulance laced her tone, a stubborn attempt to conceal the surge of fear.

Byleth stared for a moment longer before returning to her chores_. _

“Forgive me. I was trying to give you peace.”

_By closing my one window to the world? I think not._ She growled, vanishing once more- this time by her own will. Easing back onto her throne, she sighed.

_Know that I, too, am adjusting to… whatever this-whatever we are._

_… _What was this exactly?

Was it a haunting? Some restless spirit latching onto her after their untimely demise? She didn’t recall ever killing a small girl in any of her past jobs… Or was it an indirect causation of her doing? 

_I’m not some vengeful ghost. Do I seem malicious to you?_

No, she was sarcastic. Disgruntled.

_You’d be disgruntled too if you were in my place without a body of your own._

Perhaps. It was an alien condition and most discomforting to consider. To not be in control, unable to act upon her whims or will, to simply observe, and add input. For a sentient enigma that granted her the power to turn back time, a power that defied the natural order of things, she was ironically more or less powerless.

The more she stewed on it, the more she felt led to seek some consolation for the spirit. Perhaps they could create a form of compromise? If this new jobs of hers provided her some spare time, they could venture on what Sothis would also like to experience.

_… That is very kind of you. _

Why did she sound surprised? Of course, it was within controlled boundaries-Byleth wasn’t about to go jumping off a cliff at Sothis’s expense. This solution only seemed fair in optimizing a situation that neither of them anticipated. Besides, it would also do well for herself to figure out how deep this connection laid. How far did the connection go? How many aspects of life would they share through this… cohabitation?

_Indeed. How far does this river go and to what ends does it lead?_ The girl let out a troubled sigh and for a moment, sounded far older than she appeared.

_No matter. It is not a question that can be answered now. Speaking of questions, back to my previous one. That box of yours… it sings?_

“It’s a music box.” Setting her small folded stack of clothes into a cabinet drawer, she went back to the aforementioned bauble and opened it for Sothis to see.

Nothing about the inside looked familiar or comparable to anything else Sothis had seen beforehand. Delicate pieces of silver strips and screws and gold cylinders and cogs meshed intricately with one another while the ceiling of the lid held a mirror. With nimble fingers, her host plucked a small key shaped rod piece resting in the small chamber of the box and from the outside, placed it within the hole carved into one of the faces of the box.

Her head tilted at the winding clicks that came with every small turn of the little key. Then Byleth stopped. Music box in hand, she waited.

Then golden wheels began to rotate and out came a soft chime followed by another.

It was the same melody from Byleth’s shared memory. A lullaby that was both sweet and soothing as it was filled with wonder… as though the composer created the descant with pensive thought on what’s to come.

The mercenary set the box on the desk and sat herself on the edge of the bed. Sothis settled herself afloat atop the low-rise cabinet while she did so.

They rested in silence, listening to the tune for a few moments more until it began to slow and cease playing altogether.

“My father is a private man.” Byleth began, bringing Sothis’s attention back to her. “While many call him a friend, there are few he considers as one. Few knew the details of his personal life. And fewer were privy to the details about me… at least the truths behind the rumors.” She stared at the empty gaze of her own eye peeking from the small mirror’s reflection in the music box’s lid.

“Before our company, father started with a baby bundled to his chest and a lance strapped to his back. A single father that toiled to provide. I think I was about seven winters old when we met them. A violinist who could cast both faith and reason spells as well as he could play a Mittlefrank sonata by heart, and a dancer who could actually cross blades with my father and last longer than seven seconds.”

The amber glow of a setting sun shadowed Byleth’s silhouette but not hers. It was disconcerting if not disorienting. Such observation tempted Sothis to skirt into a shaded corner, away from the reality of this fragmented life that was supposed to be hers… but the story kept her rooted, kept her nerves soothed and her curiosity tranquil.

“They were a part of a troupe. Father and I joined them for a while, and when it was time to part ways, they joined us. Not sure why they did it. Their earnings as entertainers seemed stable. But father trusted them more than he trusted anyone. You could say they were founding members of Jeralt’s mercenary company.”

_What happened to them?_

“They never intended to stay. A part of me knew that. They departed for Morfis by the time I started making a name for myself among our mercenaries, and we said our goodbye at the port. I was given the music box as a parting gift.”

Viridian eyes followed her wake as she stood and closed the box, returning it to its former place in the obscure corner.

Mortals were often more trivial than they were fascinating in her eyes. While she harbored voids in her memory, she understood with a primeval air of knowing that her existence was something far more profound than a human’s-at least once upon a time it was. So, she had to give Byleth some credit. Her host was a lady of few words but on those sparse moments when she spoke extensively, she was compelling.

_You miss them._

“People come and go. I’ve learned to say my thanks then prepare a goodbye.”

_But you still miss them, do you not. _

“… They were good teachers.”

Again, that staleness pervaded. Sothis could taste it in the air, but beyond it, something stirred like the faint traces of a pulse, something faraway that sang with life. It peeked through the seams that layered this odd sterility shackling her host, eroding away the unseen chains like ocean tide slowly but surely eating away at rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brady and Inigo from FE:A make a cameo appearance! (it probs won't be their last).  
My first ever Fire Emblem experience was Awakening, so even though it might not compare to its predecessors, its characters still hold a place in my heart. Their supports are hilarious, and I've always imagined them journeying together as a part of an entertainment duo with Inigo's dancing and Brady's violin.   
.  
I hope everyone is doing okay in the midst of this pandemic. I'll sheepishly admit not much of my lifestyle as a bit of a social recluse changed ...  
Please read and review or leave a kudos! Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read.


	5. Golden Deer: The Rifts Between 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude pries, a barn own cries, and Byleth doesn't lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale comes in two parts! two chapters! Please enjoy and don't miss either one :)

Golden Deer: the rifts between. Pt. 1

**Imperial year 1176, Kingdom Territory, in a town within the Kleiman territory**

_Hunger. It was a feeling far more primal than lust, and it’s plagued his body for weeks now. _

_Hunger was a monster, sealed within his accursed body, clawing and ripping at his insides until he placated it with whatever meager scraps he could find in the frozen hell of Faerghus’s winter._

_Hunger stirred a paradox, weighing down his humanity like heavy shackles, yet unlocking, encouraging, empowering what could only be described as a feral, primordial drive._

_ It was this drive that led him to this point, this cruel, bloody point at the end of a demon’s blade. _

_ “You’ve been troubling several towns in these parts… There is a bounty for you, dead or alive.”_

_Ah… so she was indeed summoned to hunt him. He was flattered. To think the dogs of these parts would go so far to have a demon come for his hide. _

_A true winner, this demon was, to outsmart him in his own game of traps and snares. _

_ He had been hoodwinked, fooled into arrogance at her shy demeanor and fair appearance, believing her to be easy prey. _

_They did say not to stalk your prey until you are sure that it is prey. _

_She was the superior predator to hunt him so shrewdly and ardently. It had been a thrilling game, a wonderfully good game while it lasted. So while he knelt there, aching knees numbed from the cold, clenching what was left of his hand while dripping red onto the white snow, he found himself chuckling._

_ It was a miserably hollow sound, but the only sound that would come from his parched throat. For there was little he had left now. Nothing to give this cursed life much reason. His fighting spirit was all but diminished to ash, burned away by the countless angry torches brandished at him. His desire to _be_ better, wrung out by his mother’s throttling hands around his neck. His longing to belong demolished by the shit, stone, and vicious slurs thrown at his way once they saw the color of his skin._

_ Why was it such a fucking crime for him to be born? Why did it appall them when he finally threw back the stones? Why was shock etched into all those corpses when he slew them like the savage beast they claimed him to be? Hypocrites, all of them bloody fucking hypocrites, unable to stomach the game that was hunting when the tables were turned on them._

_ All except for this grim reaper of a young little lady. _

_ She was patient, waiting for his rattling laughter to cease, unmoved by the half-deranged smile on his chapped lips, expression far too innocent for someone who severed two of his fingers and bound him by his ankles with his own belt. _

_The snow reflected the full moon’s light, adding an eerie glow to the pallor of her skin. Her cupid bow lips parted, and wraith spoke with that mellow voice of hers, unchanged from the time it warned him to halt his homicidal pursuit. _

_ “Kleiman wanted your head.” _

_ Lord Kleiman? He was honored. To think he was enough of a pain in that Kingdom dog's stiff arse for him to finally hire a monster to track down a monster._

_ “But I think your fingers should suffice.”_

_ … come again?_

_ “Your fingers.” He hadn’t realized he spoke aloud. She crouched then and plucked the severed digits from the pinkened snow patch. _

_ “Might as well put them to good use.” She pocketed them in her winter cloak as a merchant would pocket coin. Dagger still in hand, she began shuffling through her pack._

_ “If the cold hasn’t stopped your bleeding, some bandages should. For now, here, have this.” She pulled out a parcel wrapped in paper and tossed it to his knees. Eyes the color of refined steel blinked, staring at the package.1_

_ “Smoked trout. It’s not much, but it should suffice for the journey.”_

_ “What?” Pain all but forgotten, he gaped at her, flummoxed. What the hell was happening? Why wasn’t she ending his misery as she was hired to? What-_

_ “-the bloody fuck are you saying?”_

_ “Are you not fond of smoked trout?” Indifferent to his confusion, she continued. “But you’re not in a position to be picky. Not until you fill out your cheeks.”_

_ She was supposed to kill him. Did he _really _have to say this?... By the gods, he really had to say this… _

_ She waved away his words. “Technically, I was contracted to rid the territory of you. They didn’t specify the terms in which I do so in the contract, though Lord Kleiman did announce he wanted your head on a pike.” The mercenary deadpanned, standing up and wiping her dagger clean of his blood. _

_ “So why not do it then?” He spat._

_ “Isn’t it obvious?” Clinical violet blues bore down upon him. “It’s better to have you alive than dead.”_

_ “Why have me at all? Why the fuck could you possibly…” He scoffed, unable to believe this woman’s ideas. “I’m nothing… no better than a mangy, flea-bitten mutt.”_

_ “You could use a good bath.” She mused. “And I disagree. Your hunting skills rival a bloodhound’s, and you fight better than most of my father’s men. I read your dossier.” _

_“You read my… And you want to _hire _me?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Is this a fucking joke?”_

_“No.”_

_“I don’t believe you.”_

_“Do you want me to write a contract? My quill and ink is back at camp. We might have to write it in blood.”_

_ ...Write it in bloo-this demon was serious. This had to be some freakish, fevered dream. This couldn’t be real. His hunger and the cold must have caused this hallucination. _

_ “…You… you want to fuck me, is that it?” He pressed, glaring as though she were an alien entity. “Are you desperate for a good fuck?”_

_ Even with his ragged clothes, half starved body, and rancorous stench from living most of his life in the wilds, he was attractive. He was well aware of this. If people didn’t sneer at his exotic features, they lusted after him like dogs in heat. _

_ She blinked and crossed her arms. _ _“For someone so clever, you make some awfully obtuse accusations.”_

_ “And you’re a fucking madwoman. You’re just going to waltz into your camp with a fucking criminal in tow?”_

_ A nod. “More or less.”_

_ “What fucking makes you think I’ll go along with this barmy idea of yours?”_

_ “Because it will give you more than soiled clothes and an empty pocket.”_

_ His tongue tasted blood as it swept over his lips. Silver and indigo remained locked with one another in a silent battle of wills until the northern wind forced his eyes shut and his body shivered as knife-like cold cut through his clothes. _

_She stepped forward before him, dagger twirling in hand._

_ “If you prefer death, then that can also be arranged.”_

_If he preferred death? He thought he did. For what other option had he been given other than to waste away and rot?_

_“So, what will it be?” _

_ But did she really think he would just work for her without trouble? Like some fucking dandy and eager greenhorn sell-sword? Did she not care about the risks? Not see the madness of her idea? What made her think that the"traitor's blood" running through his veins wouldn't tempt him to stab her pretty back?_

_The demon offered her hand then, while h_ _e pondered this in his disbelief. Pondered at the possibility of escaping her and perhaps paying her back for the loss of his fingers. _

_Her hand was slender, rather dainty in its long-fingered appearance. Deceptively feminine until one peered close and saw the callouses. Its edge was rimmed dark, stained with dried blood-a reminder of what she could do to him… what she already did to him._

_“Your choice?”_

* * *

**Imperial Year 1180, Garreg Mach Monastery **

Their new professor was an enigma. In the weeks that followed the mock battle, it was an idle hope that his perfectly planned and executed victory feast with some pilfered Gautier cheese would thaw out the stoicism frosting the ex-mercenary’s enigmatic character. But while it slightly warm the shy deer up to the aloof creature that was their instructor, the same couldn’t be said for the woman.

Not a smile or even a sliver of a triumphant smirk while the rest of the class basked in their sweeping victory and praised her for her leadership; Byleth Eisner proved to be a challenging puzzle to solve.

But Claude loved a good riddle.

“Axes, Teach?” He smirked when perusing through his personal lesson plan. “You sure you’re not mixing mine with Hilda’s?”

He doubted that was truly the case. The amount of focus she had when inquiring him on Academy’s methods of instruction had been intense enough to make a man of lesser bearing fidget. She seemed too meticulous for such careless mistake. But Claude was curious. With all her ways, he wanted to know her _whys_. Anything that could give him insight to what went on in her pretty little head. Information was power, power was always advantageous, and he was nothing if not an opportunist for any leverage.

“Axes are versatile.” She elaborated, giving her training sword a twirl after rewrapping the handle’s grip. “They can be used for close quarter combat or ranged combat if necessary.”

“So can spears.” He argued for the sake of it despite his overall distaste for the weapon.

Out of reflex or habit, when met with those violet blues, Claude curved his lips into his usual, disarming smile. Whether it was to divert unwanted attention, bait interest, or dance closer to the subject, close enough for mental dissection, charm was both a weapon and a shield. A well-practiced smile did wonders in excelling this game of social diplomacy. A game that this woman seemed to disregard.

“You seem to prefer single-handed weapons in close quarters. A sword doesn’t have that restraint but it’s difficult to throw with precision. An axe can have the similar single-handed versatility of a sword and with some practice, it can be thrown accurately.”

She tilted her head then-a gesture that could have a thousand different meanings, all of which he was unable to decipher.

“But these lesson plans aren’t arbitrary if you wish to focus on something else. Your sword techniques could also use polish.”

He never openly stated his weapon handling preferences. Though it was obvious he favored archery, he wasn’t one to blatantly ever admit his distaste and deficiency in lances. Having one hand free was as important as sleeping with one eye open, but he never made a statement of it.

Claude had to give her credit. She was astute… and rather articulate as well when she wanted to be, especially for someone so taciturn. He made, yet another, mental note on the detached mercenary before proceeding with the lesson plan.

…

Every step he took to pace around and close in on his subject of fascination, his person of interest, no matter how casual it seemed, required some degree of tactical thought. A balanced approach that was equal parts interrogative as it was watchful. She was secretive-infuriatingly so- not that he would openly show his ire, but it was a genuine blow to his ego.

Having experienced the insidious nature of aristocracy, he knew more intimately than most that dissecting the motives and reasons behind a person’s course of action was imperative in turning the odds to his favor. So he tread carefully on the social tightrope-more of a thread really-that tethered them.

There were certain nuances to her character that could be gleaned from observation.

For instance, that articulate tongue must have come from reading. It was hard to believe a travelling mercenary was bookish, but considering the amount of times, more often than not, he’s seen her go around with a book in hand, it was safe to say that she was a reader of sorts.

“You’re acting more like a scholar than a mercenary, Teach.” He said offhandedly, leaning forward from behind, resting his forearms against the bench. She was sitting near the pond just outside the mess hall with a sandwich in hand and a book in lap. It was lunch hour, and while students and staff all ate their meals comfortably indoors amongst peers, she seemed content in her isolation.

A loner, but not a waspish and prickly one like the Blue Lion’s swordsman. She did not seem to mind company when it was given, yet she never sought it out.

She kept a finger in the pages as she closed the book, giving him the opportunity to read the title stamped in the hard cover.

_The Universal Law of Faith and Reason_

A rather old but well-kept book, perhaps due to neglect for the sheer lack of interest by many. It seemed to be a book fit for a studious magic-user, someone like dear little Lysithea, and more of a wasteful read for someone like him who had poor to borderline nonexistent magical aptitude. He recalled seeing their professor use some magic. It had been a subtle moment, but he kept his memory of that night of first impressions meticulously clear.

_She led them into the woods at the forefront of the village, stepping over the body of her recent kill. He followed suit with more of a hop while Edelgard and Dimitri preferred to step around the bandit corpse, the latter doing so with a pitying grimace. It was an understandable sentiment. There was something miserably pathetic about dying from a broken neck as the bandit had. The sound and swiftness reminded him of the time he snuck a peek into the wyvern farm and witnessed the breeder euthanize a sickly fledgling crippled since its hatching. Too feeble to squirm and fight, it hardly let out a squeak before the caretaker snapped its spindly neck with a quick twist. He held his own little scaled partner close that night. _

_There was a watchtower, but to his wonder, the stoic mercenary did not attempt to climb the ladder to try and seek a vantage point-not that it mattered much with this darkness. The bandits had enough sense not to chase them with torchlight. Instead she grabbed the oil lamp hanging at the post of the watchtower and blew out the flame. Without the warmth of the candle’s light, her pallor took a ghostlier tone. _

_Lamp still firmly in hand, she continued her path forward into the woods. _

_“What are you-“_

_“Quiet.” She didn’t snap, but there was something steely in the monotony of her command._

_Claude would have chuckled if the situation weren’t so dire. He could feel the Adrestian Empress-to-be bristling with indignance though she remained silent. It took another type of authority to hush her highness (or should he say, her haughtiness**)** with a single word._

_She attached the lamp to her belt and signaled a halt when they heard them up ahead. Content to obey and stay behind and away from the danger, he watched, keeping an arrow notched and ready. _

_“On my signal, when you have a visual, take the shots.”_

_When he had a visual? His eyesight and aim were excellent, but he didn’t have an owl’s eyes. Despite his doubts, he held his tongue of his usual wit as they approached the loud shadows in the clearing._

_There were three of them. Three of them waiting and sniffing about like hungry wild dogs, one clearly acting as the brawn with the size of his physique while the other two exchanged words in hushed tones. _

_“Scouts aren’t back. I don’t got a good feeling ‘bout this. We should go back.”_

_“And tell boss what? That our five-man team couldn’t handle some brats?”_

_“They might’ve found some help from that village. You heard what Sid said.”_

_“Yeah yeah, somethin ‘bout a monster.”_

_“Demon, you dum-”_

_The brigand never finished his sentence. _

_A bone shattering pommel strike to the first, followed by a single slice of the throat that gave her an axe. The axe soon lodged itself into the skull of the second. What he couldn’t see, he heard, and what he heard was slaughter done quickly and effectively. Then for the last and the brawniest one, she became far more creative and his wonder with the oil lamp was answered._

_She swung her iron sword and jammed its bloody point into the soil. Relieving her right hand of a precious weapon, she reached with her left and quickly unlatched the lamp hanging at her hip. The fighter took that moment to retreat with a leap, erratic in his footing from the suddenness of the assault, heeding the instincts that screamed for distance against the superior predator. _

_The man should have continued back, should have conceded to the warning that hubris often tried to smother. He should have opted for the “cowardly” route and attempted retreat. He would have if he were in his place. But few in Fodlan understood the value of a strategic retreat. _

_The bandit raised his fists. A brawler. It would be easy to shoot the man down. He was close enough that the Golden Deer archer wouldn’t miss, even in the dark. But he wanted to see- he had to see. What was she going to do next?_

_ Her dodge was light-footed and simple. A few steps to the right, dodging a lunge as the man attempted to clobber her head with a fierce, gauntlet reinforced right hook. The momentum sent him charging past, and like a bludgeon, she swung the lamp down and shattered it on the base of his neck._

_She turned into a pivot with the grace of a dancer, and a burning, golden glow flared to life in the palm of her right hand. Shattered glass glittered like stars, and the light of the fire spell illuminated her face in a haunting angle. _

_The tongue of the golden flames followed her swinging hand, tracing an arch into the darkness. It was a simple spell, the simplest of offensive fire incantations. But that was all it took. _

_A single lick of fire against the oil-soaked skin and cloth, and the bandit was lit like a torch. A screaming, thrashing torch that fled in a mad sprint, revealing the rest of its pack hiding not too far in the distance. _

_She plucked her sword from its earthen sheath and gave her signal. With the signal, he had his visual._

_In the yellowed light, he could see the horror etched into their faces as they watched their own burn. That hesitance and fear would lead to their demise, but he couldn’t blame them. Not when the howling, unearthly agony of the torched man made him hesitate. _

_But then she turned to him just as the flame, tamed by her hand, gave him a glimpse of her eyes. Void of malevolence. Void of mercy. Such a vicious contradiction to the fierce passion of the magic fire._

_Yet it motivated him with its indifference, impressed him. While he couldn’t speak for his companions, Claude was not one to disregard a good strategy. Even if it was ruthless. Even if the air smelled of smoke and burning flesh. The boost in his confidence felt borderline feral. It was morbid. Some would say deplorable. But he was no saint or some pampered noble. He was a survivor, and before him was a golden opportunity. _

_And so, as her magic flame faded and darkness enveloped her eyes, he let loose his bowstring with a twang. _

“I am not familiar with the academic aspects of sorcery taught here.” She was looking at him now, still as stoic as that night. Yet through her posture, with her loosened shoulders and her hands resting on the book in her lap, her disposition was far more gentled.

“Oh? Where did you get your lessons then? You don’t seem to shabby with spell work, Teach.”

He had only seen glimpses of her magic here and there. She did not rely on it as most mages would in a fight or flaunt it before them during lectures or spars, but it was not for lack of skill. So, to call her a mage seemed lacking but not entirely wrong. From what he could recall from Hanneman’s lectures, talents in sorcery varied just as species of toxic flora varied. For magic users like Lysithea, her skill was represented through the sheer destructive potency of her spells. The elfin girl once left a smoldering, wagon sized crater where one of the training dummies stood in one of her experimental casts.

Byleth’s magic, from observation alone, didn’t seem like much in comparison. She did not leave smoking craters or revealed an ability to cast a diverse array of spells- he’s only seen her conjure fire. But her magic seemed controlled, precise, and impressively quick despite its meticulous nature. Perhaps she _could_ blow craters and raze forests but simply held herself back. It would be foolish to assume she was incapable because he hadn’t seen it.

“One of my father’s mercenaries.” She explained. “He was a skilled mage and instructor, but he was from a different land. Some place not in Fodlan where their interpretation and methods sorcery differed.”

“How so?”

“They don’t distinguish magic the way it’s done here. They don’t categorize spells as Reason or Faith, and dark magic has its own category.” She skimmed through the pages. “Tomes and grimoires were primary weapons that reinforced what we’d define as Reason spells. Here, it’s rare for mages to rely on such things in the heat of battle.”

Yes, a comical thought to picture a mage flipping through the pages of a book in the middle of a bloody fight. Odd and rather impractical.

She answered his unspoken question. “It has its benefits and disadvantages. You don’t need to rely on memory and focus alone to perform an accurate cast if you had the aid of a tome. There is also less risk of error.”

Ah, he saw the point now. Granted, he had little talent for magic, but he observed his classmates who did have an affinity. He knew enough in theory. Spellcasting in the Officer Academy had to be done under supervision. If not an instructor or a member of the abbey, mages in the academy were recommended to have a reliable spotter in case things went awry. Burned and blistered hands from a mistake in a fire incantation, nausea from a poorly executed healing spell, fainting from overestimating one’s energy reserves for a more advanced technique, the severity varied but the consequences were all unpleasant. If any of those mistakes happened in a skirmish, it could prove to be a fatal mistake.

However, as educational as it was, Claude was more curious about the subtext of her explanation. A foreign sorcerer taught her magic?

“Where was he from?”

“I don’t know.”

“You weren’t close with him?”

“We trusted him more than most.”

“But you don’t know where he was from?” Seemed hard to believe, but then again, he did not know much of Jeralt’s character, only his accomplishments as a knight.

“It didn’t matter.” She shrugged. “I would think the origins of one’s home matters very little to most mercenary companies. What mattered was that he was a good friend to my father, a good teacher to me, and an excellent mage and healer.”

To have the trust of people as secretive as the Eisners, he must have been a capable man if not a good one.

“Nice practicality there. Sounds like he could have done more than be a mercenary.”

“He didn’t have the patience to try. His status as a foreigner without formal credentials would have made entering the courts difficult in Fodlan. At least, that was his complaint.”

“Yeah… outsiders aren’t very welcome in these lands.” Claude mused, smirk still plastered on his face despite feeling the familiar, bitter ache buried in the hollow awareness of the world’s harsh reality.

“There was little need as well. He got what he wanted by being a traveler.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Was life as a merc satisfying to you? Or did you take this position wanting more?”

There was a pause. She blinked, looking away then. Whether it was to mull over his inquiry or think about her response, he could not tell but she almost seemed pensive.

Just then the hourly bell rang just then much to his annoyance, breaking Byleth out of whatever trance she was in. She set her book to the side, grabbing her half-eaten sandwich.

“It never really mattered. Good day.”

He wasn’t sure what surprised him more. Her open-ended remark or the fact that right after her reply, she all but shoved her remaining sandwich slice into her mouth before proceeding to pick up her belongings. To many-especially a certain propriety obsessed purple stick in the mud-such behavior would have been considered sloppy and rude. However, with the way Byleth held the sandwich in her mouth and parted with a curt nod distinctly reminded him of the haughty cat that filched food from the kitchens despite the cook’s ladle brandishing swears.

It was cute, disarmingly so. Yet cute wouldn’t be how the majority described her. She hardly seemed like the type to genuinely care much about the majority opinion though.

_“It never really mattered...”_

She hardly seemed to care much about anything.

...

_The brat asks far too many questions. Does it not irk you?_

She couldn’t fault him for his curiosity, even if she couldn’t fully comprehend its focus on her. The Riegan heir knew the value of information. Information empowered people as a sword and a shield would empower a soldier.

_That curiosity will cause trouble… for us and for him. _

A plausible consequence but still a theory. When that ‘trouble’ becomes a real problem, they will cross that bridge. For now, it was not bothersome.

_Does anything bother you?_ Sothis groaned, lying limp with exasperation on her stone throne.

… Her stomach perhaps? Easily amendable. Another sandwich should suffice.

_You’re hopeless... Don’t get the roast beef again. Get the fish fillet… And some tea._

_ ._

_..._

_._

He found her in the green house next. She seemed to prefer quiet places when in her own leisure.

_Gardening Essentials: A Guide to Nurturing Nature. _Hm, a gardening book now… She appeared to be attempting some rather mellow hobbies. Perhaps it was her way of transitioning from a nomadic life to a more settled one, or perhaps she sought reprieve from a life of living by conflict after conflict, steel clashing steel.

Still… gardening?

She held a trowel in a dirt stained hand, keeping the other clean to flip through the pages of the guide. By her side was a small packet of seeds, a watering can, and her unstrapped vambraces.

What would a woman like her try growing? Something pragmatic like consumable greens or herbs? Poison? Highly unlikely unless she bent the rules. The monastery strictly forbade cultivating lethal flora in the public greenhouse for safety reasons. (He was probably the primary reason Seteth made it a formal, documented regulation. But it wasn’t entirely his fault. How was he to know the fumes from that leaf contained hallucinogens?)

But her gardening endeavor was merely a trivial mystery. There were more important things about the woman he had to investigate.

“Didn’t Captain Jeralt ever consider enrolling you in an academy?” Guesstimating her age, it was safe to say that she wasn’t too old to attend even now.

“You ask a lot of questions.” A simple, blunt statement.

“Can’t blame a guy for being curious, Teach. You’re so mysterious. It’s alluring.” He winked for good measure, adding his own charm.

An effort that appeared to be futile, as she remained unfazed. Not even a dust of pink on those nice cheekbones.

“Hardly. Few were as inquisitive as you, and fewer ever approached me with their inquisitions.”

Odd, but perhaps that was the social protocol among mercs: don’t ask, don’t tell, and mind your own business.

“Guess I’m one of a kind.”

“Hm. To answer your question, I don’t know.”

“Really? You never wondered? You seem smart enough to attend one.” Enough to apply and perhaps even earn an endorsement if it wasn’t affordable. Jeralt was a legend, revered far and wide in Fodland. With his title, he could have had Byleth enter an academy in Faerghus by serving under a noble willing to sponsor her. One way or another, he could have given his daughter the education many commoners could only fantasize about.

He while he couldn’t ascertain her emotional intelligence-or any emotions at all for that matter, her mind was quick to process. She took his brief orientation of how lesson schedules and made them her own in a matter of days.

_“Professor, pardon me, b-but I don’t understand.” Ignatz readjusted his glasses, squinting at the written scenario on the blackboard. “Why would you take away the cavalry battalion from the vanguard? Wouldn’t you need the front bolstered as much as you can for the first wave since cavalry units are faster and more aggressive than footmen?”_

_“Yeah,” Leonie crossed her arms. “even if you have armored units in the charge, your assault will still be slower, and you’ll lose more ground.”_

_“Because battle is just as much a mental game as it is a physical one. Numerically, the vanguard will be disadvantaged because they are outnumbered by the enemy’s frontline numbers without the cavalry battalion. But where they lack in numbers, the armored units positioned on the forefront will compensate with durability and longevity. They aren’t invincible but they will buy enough time and cull the enemy numbers with the assistance of the two dozen archers positioned at their rear. The goal is to bait them here.” She circled a section of the grid illustrating the hypothetical battle. _

_“The scenario shows that the enemy forces are concentrating their strength in their vanguard. They do this by utilizing their cavalry in their first wave, and when that wave is exhausted-even if your vanguard starts to crumble- you begin your own cavalry charge. We call this a ‘shock attack’. The impact of the organized cavalry charge, even witnessing it, in the chaos of battle, is enough to overwhelm. But your awareness and timing are just as essential as your ability to lead with authority if you wish to execute this sort of strategy.” _

_She set down her chalk and rubbed her dust covered fingers, pinning Leonie and Ignatz with that unblinking stare._

_“Breaking a man’s body doesn’t guarantee you will break their will. But break their will… and it matters little how strong or skilled they are.” Her head tilted, and for a moment, Claude swore he heard Ignatz swallow. “My father was very good at leading the cavalry in these maneuvers. We had very high success rates.”_

_ He could only imagine. Something about the Blade Breaker charging at you on horseback, trampling soldiers whilst carving a bloody path with his lance would, without a doubt, make even someone as fierce as Judith hesitate to push forward._

_“Seems biiiit cruel, sacrificing a vanguard that way… like they’re expendable.” Hilda bit her lip, no longer resting her chin on her hand. _

_“It’s a battle. Sacrifice and death are inevitable. But there are nobles who share your sentiments. Why else do you think they hire us mercenaries for the vanguard?” _

_The room grew quiet-quieter than it already was with this lecture. But Leonie spoke after a pause._

_“It’s probably because they know Captain Jeralt’s reputation!”_

_“And does every mercenary out there have such reputation, Miss Pinelli? I’m speaking generally.”_

_Pink tinted Leonie’s cheeks, but she remained silent, allowing the professor to continue._

_“Mercenaries come in all forms, but the broad consensus is that they are detached from civil society. Whether its because they are rejected for being born a bastard of some noble’s unsavory affair, or there to make more coin because farming and trading prove insufficient, or they simply craved the liberties and adventure of a sell sword’s life, mercenaries are often considered outsiders. Whatever the reason is, they commonly are short term investments with less risks but equal returns as any soldier so long as they’re adequate. Compared to the loyal soldiers and guards that serve the noble’s long-term military strength, mercenaries are far more expendable.”_

A harsh but sobering reality. Her words belied her twenty-something year old appearance. They’ve only yet to taste the surface of her battle-tactics, worked through a few weeks’ worth of her lectures. But Claude had little doubt her analytical awareness could pave a promising path to a formidable career in military politics. When her contract with the monastery ends, House Riegan should look to hire her.

Her voice pulled him out of his reverie.

“He never really mentioned it was possible. However, it never interested me enough to ask and consider separating from my father’s company.” She began digging small pits into the soil.

“You wanted to stay with your father? That’s touching. You guys seem close.”

“He _did_ raise me.”

Oh, was that wit? Could this woman have a sense of humor?

“After he left the church, he had you right?” He prodded further, “Who was your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“Really?” She had to be jesting or making poor excuses now.

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

“She died when I was a newborn. I don’t remember her” She replied as she began to plant the seeds. There wasn’t a trace of bitterness, not even a hint of sorrow. From her lips, it was just a simple truth.

And in that sense, it made it rather somber.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

Something in the back of his mind nudged him, urged him to stop, and usually Claude would listen, but his curiosity won over his conscience.

“You never asked?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It didn’t change things if I asked. She’s dead. Father said she was a good person.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes. He’s my father.”

“…But you guys don’t really look alike though, as far as resemblance goes.”

Really. Nothing alike. Captain Jeralt was a tall and imposing man who looked as though he could single-handedly fell a dozen armed men. Even in the nondescript garments of a life on the road, he had the presence of a proud knight and an intimidating yet trusted and approachable leader. Byleth, his supposed daughter, on the other hand… From the color of her hair and eyes to the rest of her maidenly features, she bore nothing in resemblance to the Blade Breaker save for her stoicism.

“Be that as it may, he is my father.”

“How can you be so sure?” He asked, clasping his hands behind his head.

The trowel paused halfway through filling the soil pits. The greenhouse fell silent.

But it wasn’t the thoughtful silence he grew accustomed to when interacting with Teach. There was something inexplicably quieter about this one, a quietness that bore foreboding.

The passing seconds felt like minutes, heavy with tension. The hackles of his conscience rose. His questions were going far, perhaps too far, leading him to what felt like the mouth of the sleeping tiger’s den. Poke the feline too long and you’ll wind up in pieces.

Byleth smoothed the soil’s surface before setting the trowel aside. Dusting her palms, she plucked her vambraces and turned to regard him with a look flatter than usual while her tone remained deceptively unchanged.

“Because I can.”

Alarms were ringing in his head, warning signals he could not justify as anything but a gut feeling. It wouldn’t bode well to have her upset, regardless of whether it was possible. Best not to risk any ire so early into her new role-even if a part of him wondered.

“Alright, if you say so. ” He ceased pressing. Now was the time to listen to his conscience. He needed to backtrack and divert. “Looking forward to this month’s mission?”

She shrugged, still locking him in an unblinking gaze while slipping on her vambraces.

“It’s up your alley.” Routing the bandits invading the holy ground of Zanado. A nicer way of saying clean up the church’s mess. “You probably did this this sort of thing a lot.”

“But the class hasn’t.”

“Aw, it almost sounds like you’re worried about us.”

Flexing her wrist, she tightened the buckles of her arm guards and looked away then, relieving him of the odd pressure that came with her uncanny stare.

“You are not my mercenaries, and vice versa, they are not you.”

The latter left him nonplussed. “Care to elaborate?”

“No. It’ll elaborate itself.”

How unfair. She couldn’t just say such cryptic things and expect him to behave.

A trill shriek just outside the glass doors stole her attention from the Riegan heir, ending their conversation much to his disappointment. She grabbed the watering can and poured it over the soil also washing her hands in the process.

In that time there came another shriek. It was a nasty sound, but the Professor seemed familiar with it. She set down the can and went to the door. Upon opening the glass gates, she turned to the trees almost expectantly.

When Claude followed her indigo gaze, he raised a brow.

Upon the low branch, perched what appeared to be a barn owl. It was a pretty thing. Cream white feathers covered its heart shaped face and front while the burnished hues of its back reminded him of henna. Pretty but odd. He didn’t recall Garreg Mach’s owlery hosting any raptors other than their crested snowy owls.

It turned and twisted its head. It was hard to tell where exactly its beady black eyes landed, but it was safe to assume it was focusing on the mercenary. Straightening its head, it let out another shriek. Claude cringed and a poor passing nun all but let out her own scream. It was an unearthly sound, a strident cry that would make infants wail and toddlers hide behind their mother’s skirts, nothing like the cute hooting of the monastery owls.

Meanwhile, Byleth, unperturbed, merely offered her arm to the bird.

It spread its amber wings and swooped down with an eerie degree of stealth, landing upon the mercenary’s outstretched arm. Around its leg was a leather band, punctured with a single hole for tethering. With talons gleaming like sharpened sickles, it would have left her arm in a punctured mess if she had not equipped her vambrace.

“Hello, Ruth. You always know where to find me.”

Were his ears deceiving him or did she speak to the avian with a croon? The said raptor puffed its plumage, accentuating the speckles of grey decorating the browned feathers.

“Well done, clever girl.”

Verdant eyes widened. He didn’t know what startled him more: her stroking the raptor or the subtle warmth lacing her usually apathetic tone.

It trilled when the woman began scratching a sweet spot just above its widow’s peak.

“He’s not here… Hm. You went ahead to greet me, then?” It nipped her finger affectionately as she stroked its chest. When it proceeded to twitch and turn its head with a click of its beak, he could have sworn he heard the stoic woman give a soft snort. She reached behind her, into a pouch hidden under her cloak and pulled out a strip of dried fish.

The treat was snapped and swallowed with a few jerks of its head before the avian shook its plumage out and sank on its perch in a show of content.

Claude inched closer, unable to contain a childlike fascination at the sight. “How’d you tame it? It’s… cute.”

Unfortunately, his approach was unwelcome. Raising its wings, the barn owl let out another hair-raising shriek, prior docility vanishing in an instant as it brandished its needle-sharp talons.

Raising a hand up in mock surrender, he chuckled nervously. “Alright, maybe not so cute.”

“Shhhh. Ruth, behave.” She soothed the wary bird, returning its attention to her.

He didn’t know what mystified him more. Seeing Teach’s ever-present apathy fade into something along the lines of affection or seeing her pacify the feathery agitation of her wild companion.

“I think I was 7 summers old. I used to do small jobs here and there when father was away. Not old enough to be involved in more serious work. A farmer offered to pay me to get rid of whatever was killing his chickens at night.”

“And it was Ruth?” He guessed, watching the owl chirp and squint with delight when Byleth’s gentle fingers stroked a certain spot near its cheek.

“No. Her parents.”

His smile almost faltered. If she noticed, she didn’t acknowledge as she continued to bequeath the owl with affection.

“I killed them, brought the bodies as proof to the farmer, but I spared Ruth and brought her to father. She was rather tame when I held her… perhaps because I smelled like her parents. I thought she might be useful for us, ah…” She kept her roosting arm steady as her free hand dexterously nabbed a falling feather.

Twirling the feather between her forefinger and thumb, she examined the cream to amber gradient of the aerodynamic plume. It was perfectly intact, with soft streaks of darker brown and grey patterning the gradient.

“Here.”

This time his surprise won over his smiling composure. Emerald eyes now comically owlish, his lips parted as he stared at the feather held before him.

“Her tail feather. It makes a good quill. Or a bookmark.”

“… Thanks, Teach.” He felt amused if not bewildered as he gingerly took the feather. Really, this woman was strange, nigh unpredictable. Was she not upset with him moments before? Or was she incapable of feeling upset? One moment she pins him with one of those frigid stares and next moment she’s offering him a gift.

She felt his fingers graze her own, and upon contact they fell under her observation. The tanned digits were long and rather svelte yet coarsened with the telltale scars and callouses of a practiced archer and something more.

“You’ll be heading off to greet the Captain then?”

She nodded, earning a pout.

“Pity.” He sighed. She tilted her head, much like her barn owl, earning another chuckle.

“You really know how to toy with someone’s curiosity.” He twirled the feather in his grasp, smiling as he always did.

Silent yet again, she stared at him for a moment longer before blandly repeating his phrase back to him.

“If you say so.”

The curve of his lips stretched into something far shrewder. Was she aware of how she taunted him? With her scrutinizing eyes, dispassionate face, and forthright yet infuriatingly discreet diction? What was she thinking when her eyes darted between his feather holding hand and his face? Suspicion and distrust? Attraction? Contempt?

By the stars, more questions… and even if they were answered, the answers only surfaced more questions. It was like picking the lock of a door only to find several more. This uncertainty was new to him, at least for this long. By now he should have some tells as to what gaps lied in the armor of her person. It was that way with the majority. Most made it accessible without much effort. All it took was a smile and some silver-tongued words, whether to rile or soothe, it always exposed some information to make mental note of.

But with her… She was giving him scraps, measly little bits that barely sufficed as a snack. Heaven’s sake she gave more to her shrieking pet than to him and his honeyed words.

And to add salt to his wounded ego was the one-sided nature of it all. She asked nothing from him, aside from clarifications. Didn’t wheedle or pry further upon hearing his ambiguous answers to personal inquiries.

* * *

_“Mouths can always lie, my lovely iris.” His smile is cold, and his eyes are distant. “But bodies, dead or alive, never really can.” _

He had been right back then. Mouths can lie, especially one that smiles the way this Riegan boy does…

Why else would she tolerate his questions but never ask hers in return-and she had her own questions. All tucked away and concealed under her passive disposition.

In their roguish elegance, his hands told her what his lackadaisical manners hid. They were not the hands of an idle person but one that knew toil one way or another. Dexterous hands that had their own story to tell, a story she wouldn’t hear from his tongue.

What a pity. His story seems like an interesting one.

_ It does not justify the brat’s nosiness. And to make matters even more annoying, he finds your answers to his questions deceptive. Greedy and hard to please. _

No, he simply did not trust her. It was fair. She was not entitled to his trust.

_You do not mind it? The distrust?_

… It was not ideal, but these days, it seemed as though things were hardly ever ideal. It was cumbersome at times. He seemed to think she was willingly tight-lipped about her secrets when in reality, she was just as uncertain as he was.

She seldom encountered people as intrusive as he.

_ About your father… _The phantom girl cast her a knowing look. _What he said **did** bother you._

Outwardly, Byleth did not pause and merely encouraged Ruth to rest upon her shoulder, but Sothis was met with the same silence she felt in the greenhouse. It was a frozen silence, a time stilling quiet that smothered whatever possible sentiments could arise beneath the deep abyss of her host’s psyche.

_Hide behind your visage all you want, but you cannot hide from me. _She pressed. _It offended you._

_ …_If it did, why should it matter? Why did it matter? It wasn’t the first unsettling accusation made upon her person, neither was it the worst.

Mercenaries did not pry upon the business of others, but they were not immune to gossip. Most loved to hear a good tale by the campfire, didn’t mind eavesdropping to news from the rumor mill. But while many had their doubts born from fear left to fester, Claude’s doubts seemed more calculative, born from logic and curiosity dabbled with caution.

So even if was unpleasant, even if it left her feeling… unsettled? Frustrated? Hurt? she could not fault the young man.

Because she had her doubts too, dreadful doubts she did not want to feed. What she told the Riegan was true. She did not know her mother’s name. She knew close to nothing of her aside from the little nuances her father would slip when he came home with a few too many pints of ale or when he lingered in his nostalgia like a man that has seen far too many years but few very happy ones. And she never asked because what was the point? At the end of it all, what would she do with the knowledge? It did not change the fact that he raised her alone. It did not change the reality that she grew up motherless. It did not change the pointing fingers and nervous glances.

It did not close the distance many were all too eager to put between them and the “Ashen Demon”.

_“They say she has no mother because she was summoned, not birthed. Look at her. Do you think our commander could sire something like that?”_

Cold was the memory. Cold and hollow, absent of anything but solemn acceptance. Sothis sank into her seat. Her fingers curled and clawed upon the stone armrests as the memory came and went. Somewhere deep within her fragmented existence, she knew this world was not always kind to those who dwelled in it, but that did not lessen the world’s sting.

Sothis rolled her eyes before steeling her frustration into a sense of conviction. _Mortals often villainize what they fear, and they often fear what they are too stupid to comprehend. The fault is not your own. I know not who is responsible, but what I do know is **you**. Even more now than before and certainly more than others. I live within you, after all._

She straightened, as though to look taller and firmer despite her childish appearance.

_Byleth. Your heart is not dead. It is merely different._

The said maiden paused mid-stride, digesting the girl’s words.

It had been a while since anyone truly attempted to consolidate her aside from father. It was... nice.

Speaking of her father, he was in sight, entering the stone gates of the monastery, quick to dismiss both knights and mercenaries under his authority, leaving him alone albeit with a few familiar mercenaries.

Ruth shrieked and took off from her shoulder, swooping in a graceful arch before landing as Jeralt stretched his neck, making room on his pauldron encased shoulder.

She scanned him, keen as she sought any possible signs of injury. But her father wasn’t deemed a legendary knight for naught. Seldom did he ever come out of a fight with more than a scratch.

He spotted her then, and his stoic countenance shifted into a small, relieved smile. Ironic, considering he was the one who left on an actual mission that involved spilling blood judging by the specks of darker, rusty brown staining the hem of his uniform.

Byleth quickened her strides, meeting him at the steps to the marketplace.

“Hey kid. Professorship treating you well?”

She shrugged, earning a gravely chuckle as though Jeralt expected nothing less. The towering man then turned to his belt straps and with a careful hand, pulled out a curved, golden bloom.

“Came across some of these growing on the fields. Not sure what it’s called, but I’m sure you know. It’s a bit broken at the tip, but here.”

Large, battle-hardened fingers gently pinched the delicate stem of the flower. She received the offering with a soft-spoken thanks

She closed her eyes and lifted the flower to her face. The soft petals tickled her nose as she took a delicate sniff.

“Freesia.” She declared, opening her eyes, and focusing on the blossom’s gilded hue with a lidded gaze.

Jeralt’s smile gentled. Byleth had her own way of expressing her rare delight. While somewhere deep down, he wished she would smile, her inability to do so didn’t contest to the fact that she had her moments of content. It was what began this little tradition between the Eisners. Whenever they had to spend time apart to divide and conquer jobs in different territories, upon his return, he’d pick up a flower on the way. If not a single bloom was in season, then he brought something else from the land’s flora.

A pretty crimson leaf from the eastern maples or a fragrant pine twig from the northern evergreens, his return gifts varied but they all held the same meaning:

Wherever he went, for however long, she was in his thoughts.

It was assurance, a way of soothing whatever doubts his daughter may suffer from as she had in the past regarding her place in his life. Even if she no longer felt doubt, this ritual gratified him. It was comforting to see her enjoy the flowers he brought.

She was just like Sitri in that regard. Especially now, with the flower in hand. Despite lacking the radiant smile her late mother would have every time she would greet him when he entered these very walls, with the way she held the bloom within a tender grasp, shoulders loosened of tension whilst her head tilted… She looked serene and beautiful, just like his Sitri.

_Would you have agreed with me, love? Or would you have simply blushed and chided me?_

If only she was here with them. He wouldn’t have this melancholy plaguing him like a phantom limb.

“Father..?”

“Hm?” Tugged from his thoughts, Jeralt blinked.

Her violet blues probed his honeyed ones before she asked.

“Will you be available for supper?”

“Sorry kid,” He scratched his neck, sighing. “Been procrastinating on some reports. It’ll be late by the time I’m finished.”

“I can assist you.”

It was a tempting offer and not an uncommon occurrence back in their mercenary days but… “Aren’t you busy with your own reports?”

“I don’t procrastinate.”

“…Are you being cheeky, now?” Brow raised, Jeralt smirked almost in disbelief at the possibility. Even the few around him who knew the pair eyed her with surprise.

His inquiry was met with a deadpan stare, but he could have sworn her indigo eyes were shining.

_Well I’ll be. Kid’s intentionally being a smartass. _Jeralt snorted off his chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright.”

Sothis closed her eyes, savoring the freesia’s scent wafting to her senses and the cozy warmth blanketing her metaphysical being. Her host was at peace, the writhing threats of ire born from conversing with that silver-tongued brat no longer prickling her skin.

...A silver-tongued brat who watched the two go, side by side, with a weighted thought behind his emerald gaze.

He felt a prick of doubt like a sharp thorn prodding at the base of his conscience, its tip poisoned with some regret. Perhaps he shouldn’t have tested the waters and asked the questions the way he had, at least about her sire. By blood or by sentiments alone, the family bond was clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This two part tale with the Golden Deer leader was pretty challenging to write, not going to lie, but I really enjoyed the challenge of writing Claude. hopefully I can flush out more of his character as time goes on.   
It's hard to pick a favorite in Three Houses (which just shows how well some these characters are written), but Claude is definitely ranked up there for me (tied in first with Dimitri tbh).   
Part 2 is far more action packed, and it delves deeper into the mercenary aspect of my Byleth.


	6. Golden Deer: The Rifts Between 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Deers is introduced to Byleth's lieutenants and experience the grim reality of battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated two chapters at once, so make sure to read both! I hope you enjoy my OCs. There is quite a bit of blood, gore, and swearing so please be aware!

**Imperial Year 1180, 31rst of the Harpstring Moon**

It was a sobering walk from the classroom to the gates. With each step they took, the Deer became quieter, and their strides shorter in their trepidation.

It was unusual for their house to be so quiet. The Golden Deer were a lively bunch, relatively unbothered by the hierarchy that came preordained due to someone’s blood, background, or wealth. This wasn’t to say that they lacked such people of import-or people with that sense of self import (mainly one persnickety purple haired noble).

The Leicaster Alliance was unique in that sense. Unlike the Empire and the Kingdom, they did not follow the common, monarchial system of governance. In some ways, it made the students- commoner or noble-more autonomous and outspoken in their differences and with it, the boundaries of social propriety were blurred and less cumbersome, allowing the Alliance youths to banter and bicker and openly express themselves with one another more comfortably than most. This made for a lively house with a penchant for mischief, and Claude wouldn’t have it any other way.

So… this silence was drearily uncharacteristic, but he couldn’t blame them. The Church’s pending assignment for their class wasn’t a pleasant task.

‘Subdue the bandits’… a nice way to rephrase an execution.

For some if not all of the Golden Deer, excluding himself, it would be their first time shedding blood and taking life on a battlefield. He already had the unfortunate pleasure of that experience weeks prior with the Princess and His Royal Highness.

It was a morbid but necessary initiation to the reality of this world. Arguably not the most interesting mission for him, initially, but now that they were going to be accompanied by their once-mercenary-now-professor-but-still-oh-so-incredibly-mysterious ‘Teach’, it had far more potential for intrigue.

“Must I go…?” Marianne, in her ever so forlorn tremor of a voice, muttered while clutching her elbows and shrinking further to herself the closer they came to the gates.

“For the last time, Marianne, it’s mandatory.” Lysithea sighed. “It’s not like any of us want to do this. They didn’t make it optional.”

“Don’t worry Marianne!” Leonie assured, turning to smile at the meek girl. “Some Seiros knights will come with us, and even better, mercs who worked closely with Captain Jeralt.. I don’t know about the Professor, but I can vouch for the Captain. His soldiers are probably incredible fighters. Best of the best!”

“Hmph, we’ll see… speaking of reinforcements, I believe that’s them waiting at the front.” Lorenz deepened his strides forward, moving ahead of the group, chin and chest held high.

Claude released a mental sigh. Whether or not the Gloucester heir was attempting some petty form of power play with this repositioning, it mattered little to him. What did matter and needed his full observation was the small party waiting for them.

It was clear who was the knight and who was the sell sword. The knights had a certain sense of propriety and stiffness in their stance and attire. The symbol of the Church was etched into their garments, showing proudly as they stood in an organized fashion.

The same could not be said for the mercenaries. Each seemed to stylize their dark garbs in a fashion best suited to them, loitering in no particular order. Some stood, looking sharp and eager. One sat on a crate, bored in posture but keen in their stare. The Knight battalion outnumbered them by three to one, but while the knights’ uniformity originated from their disciplined appearance, these mercenaries exuded a strange camaraderie in their diversity.

They were far more intimidating, especially when their eyes fell on the deer.

An invisible but finite line seemed to slice through the party, dividing it into two distinct factions. Claude didn’t need keen eyesight to notice the tension between. The knights and mercenaries were like two rival packs, sizing one another up, with blatant hostility kept at bay by the central figure standing in the center.

“Hey Teach!” He brushed passed Lorenz and kept his spine straight upon feeling the weight of her fighters’ calculating gazes.

“Mr. Riegan.” Ah, still so formal and distant. How unfair. Just the other day, he could have sworn he heard her call the blue lion’s princeling by his first name.

She looked prepared. A form fitting high collared black shirt, split with a small slit revealing the pale skin just beneath her clavicle; the lower part of the slit was traced with narrow pink lines mirroring the triangular pattern stitched on the back of her cloak. It complimented the pink tassel of her trademark brooch latched and centered on her chest. Over the shirt, black armor encased her torso from her bosom to her waist, overlapped with a belt, and metal capped her riding pants and high boots at her knee like silver scales on black.

He’s seen her wear something similar in spars and the mock battle but less armored and overall, less… umbral in appearance. It was rather intimidating. Her attire was the darkest among her few but fierce band, stripping her of whatever approachable finesse was granted from her semi-casual attires donned within Garreg Mach, blending her in with her savage-looking crew.

“Hey, Teach. You look ready for a fight.” He rested hand on hips in a show of his usual lackadaisical confidence, refusing to be cowed by the predacious curiosity permeating from her mercenaries. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of his classmates. He could have sworn he heard Ignatz’s nervous gulp.

“Calling it a fight is cute.”

A rich, charming timbre turned heads to the rogue sitting on the crate. His cloak was short with a single shouldered clasp, more black than green, concealing much of his face under its cowl. But judging by the scar littered hand resting atop his propped-up knee and taut bicep exposed by his sleeveless jerkin, he was a dark-skinned man tanned a shade darker and more olive than Claude.

The hooded rogue stood and something gold gleamed on his nose under the shadow of the hood.

“It’s more of a hunt.” He said, his chuckle dark but humored. “Now who are these cuties, Boss?”

His stance was lax but convenient in revealing the handle of twin short swords sheathed upon his lower back, along with a cross strap lined with pockets no doubt stuffed with lethal tools.

“It’s a _culling_.”

It was a mousy blonde woman who growled, her husky voice thick with a foreign lilt. She was sharpening a tomahawk, sitting on a barrel. Hazel eyes rimmed with kohl, her glare seemed permanently etched on her sharp face as she scoured both knights and students.

She was dressed like a wild woman, with feathers, furs, and leathers donning her hunched figure. Leather and metal armored her chest but left her arms bare to reveal ropy flesh against sun-kissed skin, scars made intentionally in patterns they could not define. A killer spear rested against her side.

A bark of laughter. “Culling? It’ll be, vhat’s ze saying? Eazy peezy, no?”

The accent of his gravelly voice was strong, so strong it earned some nonplussed looks from the Golden Deer. He was a burly man, not on par with the Blade Breaker but larger than Alois. His hair was sheared short while dark stubble shadowed the lower half of his broad face. A simple tunic and a pair trousers with armor covered the vital parts of his torso, and a greatsword and shield was strapped to his back.

“Eezy peezy. At least for Grigory!” He exclaimed with another raucous bark; his golden eyes winked at the scowling knights.

These mercenaries were not of Fodlan, at least not entirely. That much was clear. Their demeanor and overall appearance stuck out like sore thumbs amidst the rest, screaming of foreign origins often unwelcome by these lands-especially by those within the monastery, judging by sour glares and side-long wary glances from some of the Seiros Knights.

“Don’t underestimate them, now.” This time it was a Fodlan native, a myrmidon with cobalt eyes and brown hair. Ironically, his ordinary presence stood out among his unusual lot. He rewrapped his arm with strips of cloth before tugging and flexing his digits while readjusting a gauntlet. “They’re cornered animals. That makes them dangerous.”

“Spoken like a true limpdick, Wil.” The feral woman cackled.

“Oh, piss off, Fianna. You warmongering cu-“

“Ahem.”

It was amazing how a single sound from their professor silenced the legionnaires. Byleth turned over her shoulder and eyed the mercenaries with a bland look. She then gestured to the Golden Deer with a nod.

“These are my students.”

“Ohoho! Zhey zhe _olen _Grigory look after!” Grigory grinned toothily. “Hielo, new comrades! Name iz Grigory”

“They heard you the first time, you stupid Eastern fuck.” The feral woman, Fianna, sneered while tossing the tomahawk in her hand, testing its balance. “They are the _Sith’s_ to look after, not ours.”

The what now? Claude blinked at the foreign term. Guess he wasn’t the only one giving their professor a nickname.

“Fifi, behave~. You’re scaring the tykes. Now where was I before you rudely interrupted?” The hooded man drawled before raking off his cowl, revealing platinum blonde hair tied back into a knot that excluded a single wavy strand dangling on his forehead.

His features were exotic, the golden piercings accenting his aquiline nose, ears, and the wing of his left brow only emphasizing it more so.

“Ello~” Eyes gleaming like polished steel, his supple lips curved deeper into a roguish grin as he raised his hands in causal greeting.

Two fingers were absent from his hand. A pinky and ring finger severed clean, left as nothing but scarred stumps.

Some of the deer balked, eyeing the appendage or lack thereof.

His grin twisted into something wild, mirroring the smiles and smirks of his fierce comrades.

“You’re her fawns. Pleasure.” The marred hand sank and shifted to gesture at the rest of the pack. “We’re her jackals. At your service~”

...

.

“The name’s Kazim but call me Kaz. You must be the leading buck!”

The dark-skinned rogue sauntered in pace with him, casting him a side-long glance with his silvered eyes. Claude wasn’t sure what to make of the man. He was friendly, friendlier than the other mercenaries who seemed, at best, disinterested with them. 

But the cunning always knew their ilk. The man’s amicable grin was too sharp to be called harmless, like a canine baring its fangs

So, Claude smiled back. “And you must be a… jacket, was it?”

“_Jackal_.” Kaz corrected with a chuckle. “A bunch of rabid wild dogs. Came up with that ol’ nickname myself and it stuck. We’re the mercenaries the Commander’s daughter leads… formerly now I guess.”

“He’s _Captain_ Jeralt now.” Wil corrected.

Kaz gave a snort. “Who gives a fuck about the label. All the same to me. Boss is boss. Ain’t that right, Boss?”

He was ignored. Byleth stayed silent, walking an arm’s length in front of Claude.

Unperturbed, Kaz rested his three fingered hand on Claude’s shoulder. “You and your herd preparing your delicate little palettes?

“Palettes?”

“To taste blood of course.”

The hand on his shoulder was hard, pressing in a way that bordered on discomfort while the rogue’s countenance remained deceptively lax. Alarm bells rang in the back of his mind, and for a brevity of a moment, Claude struggled against the screaming demand of his instincts. Sinister memories left boxed but never forgotten began to shiver and quake in the recesses of his mind. Memories of all the assassination attempts- the bloody knives and poisonous smiles.

A mirror to the knives Kazim hid and the smile he wore. Every nerve in his body wanted to tear the appendage away from his person and put distance between him and this man called Kaz.

But Claude did not survive those attempts and come to this point for nothing. He did not spend his long days swimming the infested waters of blood bound politics and sleepless nights buried under books and chemical vials to be power played by a seemingly bloodthirsty rogue.

He kept his unwavering smile while his gaze hardened like cut and polished emeralds.

“Well, I can’t speak for all of us, but I don’t tend to meet enemies without a decent number of tricks up my sleeve.”

“Is that so?~” Kaz took back his hand, cracked its remaining fingers with the thumb, and shrugged. “We’ll see about that… but if Boss worked with you, perhaps you’re not completely rubbish.”

“You sound like you know her well.”

Come to think of it, this was an opportune moment. Claude’s silver lining in the unpleasantness. If the Professor would not indulge him with some answers about herself, perhaps her mercenaries would.

“Eh, better than most but not ‘well’.” Kaz shrugged. “_Well_ depends on perspective.”

“Well… How did you end up working with her?”

“Why do you want to know?” The man raised a brow causing the gold piercing to glint.

“Just curious how Teach ended up hiring a foreign assassin. You’re from Duscur aren’t you?”

“Huntsman.” Kaz corrected. “And only half. The one and only thing I got from my whoring mum. Does that bother you, _milord_?” he asked with mock concern.

Half-blooded not full. His initial guess was right. Hands resting behind his back, Claude gave the man his own shrug.

“Hardly. Though I haven’t seen it too often but Teach doesn’t seem to stick to the status quo.”

Speaking of the woman, she had sped her pace up to move further to the front at the sight of the incoming scouts. While doing so, she called out to Kaz to follow. The man obeyed with an immediate haste that defied his devil-may-care wit.

He parted, but not before casting Claude a knowing look over his cloaked shoulder as he raised his hood. Under the shadow of his cowl, silver and gold gleamed.

“Why else would the leading lot of our battalion be a Duscurian mutt, a noble bastard, and two Sreng barbarians? Best keep that opinion in mind. Your new teacher is unconventional. She won’t play by your rules. The likes of us never do.”

.

...

.

The axe was too heavy. It was steel, not the iron that the professor issued to Claude and Raphael. Hilda swore the woman was out to get her ever since she tried to worm her way out of physical conditioning. In her defense, she was doing some form of work though it wasn’t the one assigned. She went to the sparring corner instead and even participated in a few spars.

So what if she let a few others pass her in the waiting line? It can be argued that she was just trying to make sure everyone had their turn.

It wasn’t like she succeeded much anyway.

_“Professor~, I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this.” She made sure her arms trembled as her knees were bent inward, looking every bit as unstable and unsure as a dainty girl should with a big and terrifying axe in her hand._

_“Can you perform a basic healing incantation?”_

_“… No~.”_

_“What about an offensive spell?”_

_“No” _

_“Can you not even cast wind or fire?”_

_“No.”_

_“…Arhcery?” Deadpanned but that pause… Hilda felt it poke and prod at her pride. _

_“Professor,” She whined, “I’m just not really cut out for fight-“_

_“Yes or no, Miss Goneril.”_

_“… no.” _

_“Hm. The other option is to see how well you fair with armor. That experiment be arranged if you prefer. But we’ll have to issue you something a bit heavier than the standard trial armor.” The woman tilted her head and twirled her sword with a speculative air. “Sometimes my strikes pierce through it even with a simple training sword. Wouldn’t want to fracture your ribs or cause severe internal bleeding in the experiment.”_

_She mustered a nervous chuckle. “… You know what Professor, I think axes are just fine.” _

_There were snickers, no doubt Claude being a nosy little shit eavesdropping in the background. Really, that Riegan needed to mind his own business. _

She felt a tug on her scalp. A strand of her precious hair was tangled on the axe strapped to her back. Scowling, she untangled the pink locks with a few tugs, pulling out her hair, losing a few precious strands in the process from nicking the sharp point. This won’t do at all.

So, she looked around, eyes wide and seemingly innocent.

Marianne had been keeping pace beside her and noticed her searching gaze.

“Hilda?”

“Hm?”

“… I-is something wrong?” Did she need more space? The pinkette had been sighing and pouting since they started their trek beside each other. Marianne couldn’t blame her. She wasn’t the best company.

“This dumb axe is sooo heavy, ugh.” The girl moaned, slouching forward for a moment before continuing her search.

“Oh… Would um… you like me to carry it for you?”

A darling suggestion, one that Hilda would agree to wholeheartedly if gentle Marianne didn’t look as though she’ll collapse if someone gave her anything heavier than a wooden sword. While Hilda’s delicate looks were more of a surface display, Marianne was a delicate creature in both mind and body. The Goneril lady was an opportunist, but she wasn’t that cruel.

Just then she spotted the perfect subject: the loud and oddly accented man. He looked to be the friendliest of his lot (or least likely to mutilate and eat them for breakfast, really what was it with the Professor and her mercenaries?) She shook her head at Marianne with a smile before turning to her target.

“Excuse me!” She saw her target. The loud, oddly accented man. He looked to be the most friendly and simple of the mercenary lot. Beside him was the warrior woman from before. Donned in her armor, feathers, and furs, her walk was more of a march. Kohl rimmed eyes took a single sideways glance their way and her frown deepened into a disdained scowl. What exactly caused her feral face to twist, Hilda had not a single clue but thankfully she had no business with the woman.

“Sir Grigory was it?”

The said man smiled, nodding. “Just Grigory. No sir. Grigory is Grigory!”

“Oh… okay, Grigory. My name is Hilda, Hilda Goneril. This is Marianne.” The bluenette shrank and muttered a soft greeting whilst looking at her feet. Good, they needed to look delicate for this to work.

Hilda looked up from her eyelashes at the towering man. “I hope we can count on you out there against the ruffians.”

Grigory tilted his head, grin still intact as he blinked curiously at the two for a moment. The wild woman beside him scoffed and smacked his bicep with the back of her hand. She barked at him in a foreign tongue. Rough and throaty, they exchanged dialogue in their odd language before Grigory was struck with a look of comprehension. He turned back to them.

“Ah! Yes vorry not leetle comrade! Grigory vill vatch over zhis one.” To their surprise, his bulky hand plopped onto Marianne’s shoulder-who all but squeaked like a mouse and nearly caved at the weight-to give what was supposed to be a comforting gesture.

“As for you, pink _olen, _Comrade Kaz vill keep you living.”

“Kaz?”

“That’s my name~” The olive-skinned rogue, the cheerful man with two severed fingers. Now this was the mercenary Hilda found discomforting the most. While his smiles and attitude exuded a lax manner of charm, there was something about him she found unsettling. She wasn’t the only one. Others also kept their distance. Even Claude acted different in the man’s presence. His smiles were flatter, his shoulders stiffer when he spoke with the man.

“Ah,” Kaz eyed her axe. “you’re the sweet little barbarian I’m assigned to.”

Before departure, the Professor debriefed them of their structure for the mission. In Jeralt’s merry band of mercs, there were a select few who worked directly under her leadership. They were her seconds, handpicked by her to reinforce order into her squadron-dividing the twenty or something fighters assigned to her command into sub-divisions of five to six per subleader. For this bandit hunting assignment, the four seconds were each assigned to two students, and their priority was not to engage the bandits but keep the students alive.

Hilda wanted to groan. Just her luck that her protector was supposed to be this Kaz character. The rogue looked more likely to stab her back than watch it.

“Don’t be down, little lady. If anything, I’ll make sure you make it out with your pretty face intact. Arm or leg, you can still live without, but it’d be a shame to ruin a head like yours.” He spoke with a honeyed voice, charming and seductive, but his words… Hilda didn’t know whether she should feel angry or appalled, however she instigated this conversation not for comfort but for an opportunity.

She held her shoulders inward, adopting a meek look.

“I-I don’t think we’re really cut out for this… Least of all me, with these skinny arms.”

He seemed like the type to appreciate good visual appeal. A confident flirt that didn’t mind lapping up a good boost to his ego. Qualities that she could work with to weasel her way out of tedious labor. But impressions had the possibility of being wrong, and to Hilda’s disappointment all she earned was a snort from Kaz, and the unpleasant attention of another.

The warrioress from Sreng, Fianna. Khol rimmed eyes now regarded her with a critical stare.

“Then what good are you.” Somehow the lilt of her throaty voice added to its bite “You go to an elite academy where they teach you how to live. How to kill. You are taught by the _Sith_, no less.”

“Yeah, but we aren’t like you guys.” Hilda pouted. Just her abysmal luck. Here she was, trying to fish for an opportunity and her bait was being snapped up and swallowed before she can get a hook by this barbaric woman.

The said woman’s eyes swept from Hilda to Marianne. The poor girl looked as though she wanted to sink into Hilda’s shadow the moment the sharp hazel gaze pierced her. There was a short breath of silence. She folded her arms, flexing the taut muscle fibers of her sculpted forearms as her eyes roved both the pinkette and bluenette.

Then her scowling lips began to curve into a curious yet cruel smile.

“You girl. Little blue mouse hiding behind your companion. Are all your women this pathetic?”

Little blue mouse was most apt, for Marianne could hardly squeak but Hilda intervened before she could stutter out a word.

“Excuse me?” She considered herself many things. Dainty, charming, delightful, cleverer than most, and perhaps a tad bit mischievous. But pathetic? She embraced being considered delicate, in need of protection, and even weak but to be called _pathetic, _especially when it was partnered with this woman’s scornful smile, made her seethe.

Her pout faded into a frown. Chin up and arms crossed, she mirrored the warrioress.

“Like I said, we aren’t as experienced as you. There’s no need to be so rude.”

“Aye, but I _want _to be rude.” A mocking bark of a chuckle. “You are daughters of Fodlan clan heads are you not? Does your lot not fight or are you clanswomen only good for fucking and breeding more blood-marked clansmen?”

“…Only good for-” Hilda felt her blood boil, a rare sensation for she was not one to get riled up so easily by acerbic words from another woman. But something about this felt different from the catty arguments she’s had with jealous or judgmental classmates. Her mouth snapped shut while her knuckles went white from her hand’s crushing grip on the steel axe-an axe she was sorely tempted to swing at this vulgar excuse of a woman.

“How dare you!”

“If you want to sit back like the fat, cushion-assed, purebred ilk your lands bow to, then just get a _dainty_ little limb cut off and wait for this greedy whoreson” She jerked her head to Kaz, who simply winked, unperturbed by her slander. “to finish your task. We are ordered to keep you _alive_. Not in one piece.”

The pinkette was trembling now. A sight that clearly brought glee to the Duscurian rogue who intervened with his own little playful pout before more could be said by either woman. 

“What Fi is trying to say that there’s nothing better than a good hand’s on experience. Please don't cry, love. I hate to see beauties cry.”

“No, Kaz, you’d rather see them bleed.” The wild woman’s snort was animalistic. Like a wolf that smelled something foul. “Don’t be fooled by his silver tongue, little fawn. This rabid dog has gutted people of more than just their coffers.”

“Takes one to know one.” He chuckled, shrugging. “But don’t worry~ I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Just what kind of lifestyle had their professor lived to have such individuals in her company. Devious like thieves and crass like pirates, she could only dread how they would fight on a battlefield. The rogue in all of his lax charisma had a gleam in his eyes and a sharpness to his smile that made her bristle. As for the Srengish tribeswoman… She didn’t put it past the woman to impale a comrade with that Killer spear to get to her enemies.

In all of this, poor Marianne trembled, and her pallor took a sickly hue while Grigory simply walked along like an obliviously merry man with a bounce in his step.

Hilda has met her fair share of nasty people: spiteful girls, brutish boys, and snobby adults. But encountering savagery of this kind, the sort that was not bound by decorum and reputation, the type that seemed to base their code of conduct on something far wilder and more primal than honor and valor with no regard for civil decency… There was no beating around the bush with implicit insults that came with politicking. These people seemed like the sort that would see a watch a comrade die and see it merely as a culling of the weak.

And yet they worked with the Professor. The Professor that, while poker-faced and mellow, showed little to know signs of as crass or boorish as these people seemed.

And _these were the people_ the Professor held responsible for their protection?

As if on cue, the aforementioned woman intervened.

“Fianna. Kazim.”

“Yes, Sith?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Enough.” She didn’t bark her orders or pin them with a blank stare, and yet somehow, she sounded cold- or colder than what her monotonous voice exuded.

The effect of the single-worded command was instantaneous. All traces of their twisted humor and viperous attitude withdrew into a stoic air of nonchalance. Even Grigory’s strut was subdued into a purposeful walk.

“Yes ma’am.” They spoke in unison. A stark contrast to their rebellious persona.

She should’ve felt relieved that they stopped biting, and in a way Hilda did. She harrumphed with an indignant pout and her chin held high, earning an eye-roll from Fianna, who muttered something in foreign tongue.

Yet the unease deep in her gut did not go away. In fact, it only seemed to settle further as a permanent fixture that won’t fade until this whole tedious affair came to an end.

The common saying went that birds of a feather flocked together. It applied to each House, no matter how colorful and chaotic, and it applied to the Professor and her “Jackals”. Yet there was little she could see that connected the enigma that was Byleth to these mercenaries. It unsettled her, and she had little doubt it unsettled the others who also wondered the same thing.

Just how did the quiet woman come across her 'flock' and domineer it the way she did?

* * *

Violence anything but new to Claude. In the multifaceted ways one could experience violence, Claude has seen more sides than most, especially among his housemates. From an assassination attempt that left his cupbearer convulsing and foaming until the whites of their eyes turned red, their veins bulged, and skin blued to a well-aimed pebble thrown at his head, followed by a hissing slur in an act of petty discrimination.

But violence on the battlefield had its own set of discomforts. Seeing empty eyes stare into nothing, mouths part yet unable to emit a cry, bandits left as nothing but meaty targets where his arrows left their mark. However, his victims were hardly something he’d feel unsettled over. Not when he was at the forefront of witnessing a pack of demons on the hunt.

Archers had the perk, as a ranged fighter, to stand at a distance as an audience to the fray. It was an opportunity, but at that very moment, as he watched Kazim with his bloodied dagger, leave five concise, consecutive stabs on a disarmed brigand’s vital spots before slicing the man’s small pocket of coin from his falling body, Claude wasn’t sure if this was a privilege or a gross misfortune.

Each Jackal was divided to oversee two students-all of whom were paired together by Teach. Fianna had been assigned to Ignatz and Leonie-something that made Ignatz shrink and Leonie’s excitement falter. Grigory, the other and far friendlier Sreng warrior, was assigned Lysithea and Marianne-making Lysithea look even more childish and Marianne meeker next to his towering bulk and loud personality. Wil, the myrmidon and only Fodlan native and perhaps relatively normal (sane) member of his pack, had Raphael and Lorenz to look after-much to the man’s displeasure when he spotted what he deemed as “the hulking glutton and pompous brat”.

Lastly, as for him and Hilda, they were left with Kazim and in a way, Teach. The Fodlani Duscurian seemed to be the closest thing to a right-hand man or second-in-command to the Teach. He had seen them, out of earshot, speak with one another with the easygoing man looking oddly attentive to the woman’s quiet words.

They were under orders to be sentinels, an extension of her eyes, ears, and protection, but nothing more. Leading the battalions provided by the church and Jeralt’s company was their responsibility. Whether it was because some of the Knights of Seiros looked as though they’d rather impale themselves with their own swords rather than listen to the orders of her seconds or for educational purposes, the Jackals seemed content to do as they were ordered but with a morbid twist.

The bandits were cornered in a canyon, positioned in a way that indicated desperation but poor thought. They wasted the usefulness of the two chokepoints to the west and the north that bridged the first chunk of the canyon to the second in narrow paths. Instead, a first wave of responders was positioned at the front to meet them head on and perhaps stall and send word to their leader of their impending doom. A few archers would make crossing the chokepoints a bit of a chore but nothing more.

It was a slaughter. That’s what he would describe the end result of their encounter with the first wave. The thieves outnumbered them five to one, and yet the number only made the situation all the more tragic for the outlaws.

His arrows met their mark, hitting his foes where it would bring death the fastest. Hilda did the same with her axe, with great swings that belied her girlish features whenever a thug foolishly came close, believing her easy prey. They watched each other’s backs in an unspoken partnership the best they could, a partnership based on the shared distrust of the rogue assigned to guard them.

It wasn’t as though the man did a poor job. Quite the contrary, he was far too good to be calling himself a mere huntsman. For a man missing two fingers on his right hand, Kazim had no trouble notching an arrow with his three digits and firing them at foes threatening to blindside them. But to call the man’s actions as “guarding” seemed erroneous.

If anything, he seemed to be using them as bait, luring in whatever fool gullible enough to land into the figurative snare close enough to leave them torn of their coin purse and stabbed in several different places in rapid succession-arteries judging by the way their blood spurted in fountains from each puncture. And that wasn’t the worst of the man’s cruel proficiency.

No… The worst was that he left them dying. Dying but not dead. 

Claude almost doubted it at first, but his observations didn’t lie. The steadiness of Kaz’s grasp on his weapons was too confident for his maiming yet non-lethal attacks to be the result of poor aim. The way his lips smirked with a heartless confidence said it all. He left them wounded, damaged but alive. Stomach sliced and threatening to spill out its innards, tendons severed to wobble and crawl helplessly like a newborn calf, his victims were left to suffer a slow death until someone else (mainly him or Hilda) couldn’t bear the sound and sight and took the matter of mercy killing into their own hands.

The other Jackals seemed to be following suit in their own way. They fended off any threats, but they did not end them to the best of their savage abilities. Their victims were left to scream and beg until one of the students or Knights ended their bloody misery. All except Grigory and Fianna. The Sreng warrior seemed to act merely as a human shield for Lysithea and Marianne. His presence alone staved off close combatants, allowing Lysithea to hit them with devastating spells and Marianne to focus her efforts on the wounded. Fianna seemed to have adopted a job of disposing any stragglers Ignatz and Leonie's ranged forces did not hit. As for their professor…

For every target they felled, she killed thrice more. It was a dance, a bloody dance that would have made his stomach churn and force out his breakfast if Claude hadn’t found her performance to be _riveting_. However, he did flinch when she skewered a man’s chest and relieved him of his axe only to lodge it into the face of another hoping to flank her.

It mattered nothing to her if her foes charged forward in a group or kept their distance. One way or another, they met their end. Her movements were fluid and fierce, never staying in one place or form for more than a heartbeat, dodging, parrying, and feinting. Her foes met various ends: impaled, cleaved, beheaded, bludgeoned-diverse but swift. She didn’t dally nor expend more effort than she needed to. By the stars, she didn’t even change her expression.

Her mercenaries wore varying looks of satisfaction, from grim and determined to confident and smug. But Byleth… There were no words to accurately describe her expression because there was _nothing_. No feeling he could glean from those large indigo eyes. Not even a flinch or a blink when a speckle of crimson met her pale cheek as her victim coughed and gurgled bubbling red from his lip.

Such aberrant behavior did not go unnoticed to her foes. After a while, they began to turn tail and run. Their slew of fear riddled insults soon turned into terrorized words of recognition.

“RUN! It’s the Ashen Demon!”

“What the fuck is the _Ashen Demon _doing with the Church?”

“Ashen- Augh!”

Kaz chuckled lowering his bow after hitting his target in the eye, leaving the man writhing in agony. “Guess they aren’t completely daft. Looks like we met some of your fans, Boss.”

Disinterest… Finally, Claude found a word apt enough to describe Teach’s gaze when she stuck her sword into a crawling brigand and looked to her second-in-command.

.

...

.

It had merely been a bittersweet reality that Ignatz accepted when his father pushed him to pursue knighthood. He knew his circumstances as the second son were less favorable, but never did he deem them miserable until this moment.

Tears speckled his glasses as he heaved, vomiting onto the rocks and ruins that made the Red Canyon-a name that was beginning to fit this place more and more.

The red color bled into his blurred vision. It crawled like a newly birthed creek after a long drought, dribbling down the short wall of rock before him like watery paint on a canvas. His hands tremble, shaking his torso as they rested on his knees while he crouched. He had dropped his bow in favor of the posture just moments before. The phantom feeling of the arrow’s feathered end haunted his fingertips-a shaft that was currently protruding from the body of the corpse on that very rock providing the crimson color.

He dared not straighten from his crouch lest he come face to face with the man’s empty gaze- an emptiness caused by his own hands.

But his will and wants mattered little… hardly ever did. Especially now in this battle, especially before her hazel eyes.

She was a woman of harsh words and harsher fighting style. Even Leonie, eager with her thirst to prove herself, balked at the sight of the woman’s brutal shield and spear wielding technique. She cracked bone with her aspis shield and used the grooves on the opposing ends of the rims to support piercing strikes with her killer lance before brutally swinging the spear around to break necks and skulls. Even their bowman battalion of Seiros Knights were cowed, lowering their weapons to watch the woman leap and finish off stragglers after one of their ranged assault.

The said woman was now beside him, close enough for his hunched form to feel the heat radiating off her figure. She rested her spear against her shoulder and stretched out her hand.

Many in her position would have placed a soothing pat on the lad’s back. But Fianna was anything but soft. A shieldmaiden of the Sreng war tribes never was. Even to their own children.

Her hand merely snagged the belt of his cross-strap quiver. She yanked and forced him to straighten.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” Leonie hadn’t strayed too far since the start of the battle. Her own hands tight on the shaft of her spear to stop their own tremor. She faired better than he did, keeping her bile down and her determined eyes free of tears.

Fianna ignored her cry and pinned Ignatz with a long, severe look. Brows creased, eyes narrowed into slits, her scrutiny was a fearsome thing to meet. Yet fury seemed to be the last thing in Ignatz saw in her gaze. In all her ferocity, those kohl-rimmed eyes looked knowing and grim.

“Wipe that pathetic look off your face, little fawn.” She shoved something to his chest hard. A waterskin, already opened.

“Drink. Slowly. Two gulps.”

With shaking hands, he obeyed. Taking off his glasses, hastily wiping the tears with his sleeve in one hand and taking the waterskin with the other. The water, though lukewarm, washed away the foul taste in his throat.

As soon as he capped the waterskin, she tore it away from his grasp.

“…T-thank-”

“Shut up.” He flinched, but she carried on. “Thank me by picking up your stupid bow and fighting.” She slammed the butt of her spear onto the and glared at him.

Ignatz complied and crouched to pick up the fallen bow. His eyes caught a brief glimpse of the corpse as he did so. Nausea roiled in his stomach once more.

Blue. The corpse’s eyes were blue.

“Stomach it or die trying.” Her lilt still held its bite, but it was marginally softer. “You will not survive if you don’t.”

“… Yes ma’am-”

“None of that, little fawn. I said shut up and fight.” Her hand wrapped around her Killer lance. Scars crisscrossed its calloused knuckles.

Her glaring silence lingered for a moment longer before she spoke. Whatever traces of sobriety in her expression had faded, and a dark promise left her scowling lips with a snarl.

“Drop your weapon again in this fight… and I’ll leave you and the wannabe-bitch for dead.”

The merchant’s son could only nod as he clutched the bow like it was a lifeline. As for the aspiring mercenary who was in earshot and watchful of their interaction… Leonie, proud and brave Miss Leonie Pinelli, let out a vicious snarl of her own.

“What did you just call me?”

It had been a slap of reality for the girl to see what apparently a veteran mercenary of the esteemed Blade Breaker’s company was. Her expectations hadn’t been crushed per say, but neither had they been met.

Heroic, strong, and capable were the words she associated with the great Jeralt Reus Eisner. These people were… ruthless. Yes, they were strong and capable, but they were ruthless and anything but heroic. The sting of disappointment she felt had been palpable. And at that moment, the sting of disappointment morphed into outrage.

This woman and her foul insults. They were all insulting, but her with her lilted speech and condescending demeanor… She wanted to punch her. Maybe she could blindside the woman, leave a welt on her head with the butt of her lance and play it off as an accident. If the primitive broad was going to talk dirty, Leonie had no qualms in fighting dirty.

But her seething contemplation ceased when the woman turned. She looked downright feral. The green of her eyes blazing as she spun both body and spear towards the ginger. Leonie froze. Her spirit screamed, still stout and stubborn, but her body refused to obey its demands to take action… to do something… anything because her instincts screamed danger.

Yet her body remained still. Because as orange met hazel green, Leonie saw a predatory, dare she say, _maniacal_ smile suddenly stretched Fianna’s face.

Grinning like a madwoman, the shieldmaiden gave a powerful heave and hurled the lance straight at the girl. It whistled past her still head, centimeters away from her ear, and impaled an archer readying his aim.

There was silence…

Then a cough followed by a burping gag.

Poor Ignatz once again began to vomit-this time keeping grip on his bow. Leonie looked ready to follow suit judging from her blanching pallor as she turned to see the freshly slain archer.

The force of the throw had been so great, a good portion of the shaft passed through his torso. The spearhead landed on the coarse earth and kept the man hovering, body bent backwards, feet still grounded in a grotesquely awkward stand like a macabre display.

His weapon slipped from his fingers. The arrow’s nock slipped from the string, indicating he had been aiming for what could have been a surefire hit at Leonie’s back in point blank range.

“Next time, little bitch…” The woman strode past her still form and retrieved her spear.

“I will let you lose an ear” She grabbed her weapon and pulled. Her impaled victim slid down the shaft.

“or maybe an eye. You do not seem to use either.” He was stuck near the end. She put a boot to his chest and pulled as her leg pressed. Leonie flinched at the squelching sound of gore.

“Remember… Fight like a bitch not a welp.”

.

...

.

The arrow met her blade before it could meet his neck. Claude yelped, taken aback as he had been shoved behind her by her outstretched arm as she deflected the shot with a quick swipe of her blade. She came from seemingly nowhere as though she was his shadow manifested.

To counter the archer’s assault, Byleth launched a flame spell. Unlike the archer’s attempt, her attack met its mark, and the man fell from his perch-off the cliff of the canyon, screaming.

“Phew…” He smiled and winked when met with her blank stare. “At this rate, I think I’ll have to keep a tally of how many times you’ve been saving me. I owe you yet again, Teach!”

She blinked. Then let out a subtle sigh. A trivial motion to the majority, but from someone who had just felled at least a dozen bandits and sent many running as though she were death incarnate all with a mask of indifference, it seemed to speak volumes. It dissipated the eeriness of her murderous trance earlier and honestly relieved him.

He let out a sigh of his own, twirling an arrow as he inspected the carnage around them. They all but eradicated the first wave and took the northern chokepoint with laughable ease. The thieves were in disarray, scattering like rats fleeing fire.

“If our job is to route _every single _bandit,” He mused. “we’ll be here well into the night.”

The afternoon light was turning orange. At this rate, their mission was less of a danger and more of a hassle. It wasn’t much of an underestimation-he was never one to truly underestimate his foes-but a simple truth.

There was a pensive silence. Then Byleth turned to Kazim.

“Call the others.”

The man gave her a short nod. With the assistance of his three fingered hand, he let out an earsplitting whistle.

It wasn’t long before it summoned the other Jackals and with them, the Golden Deer. To his pleasant observation, none of the students seemed hurt. The worst of them was Raphael who had a cut on his bicep already wrapped. Physically, they looked fine. The same could not be said for their emotional state. Their somber faces said enough.

Byleth quickly scanned the group before focusing on the Srengish warrioress and the half Duscurian huntsman.

“Kaz, lead Fianna and her squadron and take the eastern point. If the bandits cached something, you know what to do.”

There was not an ounce of hesitation in the man’s nod. “Alrighty~ and once it’s taken?”

“Trap them and take out the stragglers that may flee your way. Fianna,” The woman lifted her chin. “make sure Mr. Victor and Miss Pinelli rendezvous with me when he’s doing so.”

Fianna scoffed then, petulant. “He hunts, and I _escort_?”

The huntsman snorted and waved off her ire. “Oh don’t get your panties in a twist, Fi, you’ll have your fill. You’ll have to cut a path up the western side of the plateau to meet her.

Indeed she would. Mollified at the thought of the fight, Fianna nodded. “Understood. What of their leader?”

Stoic indigo eyes roved the glistening edge of her blood-soaked sword, and yet, her mind seemed to be elsewhere.

“Leave him. Mr. Riegan and I shall deal with him.”

Wherever her mind may be, what Claude would give to know.

“The rest of us move forward. They’re cornered and will react accordingly, likely armed with poison. Everyone should each have a vulnerary and an antitoxin. Jackals, you know your priority. All units. Your orders are to keep to your formation… as for my students.

She looked up then. Her eyes bore into each of them, and no matter how much some of them wished to avoid her gaze, they could not look away.

“They’re criminals now… thieves, murderers, rapists…But they won’t always be… and perhaps, these specific people weren’t, once upon a time. Right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that they will kill you if given the chance. Be vigilant. Be wise. And most importantly, be decisive.”

She flicked off the blood with a snap of her arm, leaving a spattered ruby streak on the bedrock.

“And Kaz?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Dissect what you can. Be thorough.”

Claude had to admit… There was something about Teach’s voice at that moment that sent an odd shiver down his spine. The authority within it seemed to grow colder, more calculated.

The silver eyed Jackal ran a tongue over his lip and grinned.

“Heh, it’ll be my pleasure~”

.

Teach was right. The thieves did fight harder, at least those that remained. Ironically, their desperation seemed to only accelerate their losses as their forces cut a path to their head. The said leader had himself holed up in one of the many ruins scattered throughout the canyon. Kostas fought spewing fear riddled insults and vitriol and died mumbling what Claude could only imagine were the asinine woes of his life. Asinine because the brute blamed his lack of wealth were the sole reason for his misery and misfortune.

If only it were that mutually exclusive as Kostas deluded himself to believing… Claude would’ve had a far more pleasant childhood to reminisce.

Overall, this was a pathetic end for a pathetic man.

“Those thieves ran out of luck when they entered this canyon. They never had a chance.” Twirling his bow with a small, victorious smirk, Claude cast the Professor a sidelong look.

“Your leadership was amazing, Teach! Let’s leave the rest of this work to the knights.”

The Professor paid him no attention, but that wasn’t what made his smirk falter. She was staring at their surroundings. Turning her head with unblinking eyes at the ruins decorating this canyon.

“Teach?”

She walked straight, now staring ahead, eyes glued to the eroded remnants of walls and pillars that caged Kostas from fleeing their pursuit.

Well this wasn’t the reaction he expected… Then again, he really didn’t know what to expect with this Byleth Eisner. She moved forward. Her steps seemed slow, almost as if she were uncertain. But about what, Claude could only wonder, and oh how he wondered.

When she neared a broken pillar, she stopped and with a pale hand reached, caressing the pillar.

Keen emeralds drank the sight, mentally archiving the way her slender hand seemed to trace the faint markings carved into the ancient stone- made obscure by the whittling away of weather and time.

He found himself moving. His side steps were slow and deliberate so to keep the woman’s focus unperturbed. He encircled her like a curious deer, determined to see her face, to solve the puzzle of her subtle but sudden shift in demeanor.

It had only been a glimpse. Barely even a second, but in that small sliver of a moment, Claude caught sight of the same yet different blued violet hues. Those vacant eyes were no longer vacant. They held something… Recognition? Uncertainty? Curiosity? Sadness?

But only for a fraction of time. Long enough to tease his pervasive fascination as a shooting star would tease a stargazer by blinking out of their periphery. For the line of sight went both ways, and like a shy doe, Byleth receded whatever vulnerable depths her eyes exposed and met his inquisitive leer with her trademark stoicism.

“Penny for your thoughts, Teach?” A penny? He would need an entire vault’s worth of Bullion.

She shook her head. He wanted to groan.

“You looked pretty preoccupied there.”

“I suppose.”

“Care to share?”

Indigo eyes blinked. A pause.

“It feels familiar… this place.”

She looked away then, once again lost in thought as her lips curved into a small frown.

Seemed to be an awful amount of mental turmoil for something as simple as a sense of familiarity. He rested a hip in hand, brow raised and curious.

“Have you been here before?”

“…I don’t know.”

Ah. Those three words… amazing how three simple words could invoke so much frustration. Really, for a woman so secretive and astute, she should really come up with something a bit more creative and original. At least for him. Did she take him to be a gullible fool?

He was considered many things among the students: evasive, scheming, charming, and even dastardly but never a fool lest the accuser was a fool themselves. 

“Is that so, Professor?” The said woman tilted her head at the lack of ‘Teach’ and the hardness evident in his eyes and smile. “Cuz you look like you know _something._”

Arms folded, she blinked twice, head still in that dainty tilt. “I would hope so. I am an instructor.”

He had to snort at that one, no matter the frustration, her responses were so funny-and it didn’t even look like she was trying. Either Byleth Eisner had a very dry sense of humor or no humor at all. It was comforting to think it was the former case not the latter to sprinkle a bit of life and humanity into that stony personality of hers. 

“Claude?”

His smile showed teeth. “Funny how you stop that ‘Mr. Reigan’ now.” Her evasiveness made him feel almost petulant. “S’okay, Teach, you can-”

She sighed a noticeable sigh then, quieting Claude with the sound. Something about it and her now lidded gaze made something uncomfortable bubble in his gut.

“Similar we may be, but I am not you, Claude.”

Shame. She made him feel shame, and he couldn’t quite fathom why.

With those words, Byleth walked away. Leaving the descendant of Reigan in a subdued air of silence.

* * *

_All things have a price. That boy lusts for truths but offers nothing in return._

Trust was not something he gave easily if at all.

If there’s anything about that smirking, green eyed noble’s character Byleth could ascertain, it was that. But Sothis clung to her irritation like a sailor would their sail. Anything to find some steadiness in the tempest this place stirred, anything to stave off this cryptic feeling the Red Canyon stirred within her fragmented self that left her feeling hollow and confused.

The girl crossed her arms and harrumphed.

_ When you indulge him on his greed, he sniffs as though you gave him naught but bitter morsels. I’d find the irony more amusing if he were not so impudent. _

Wariness was nothing new to her, and Claude seemed like the type to take every word with a grain of salt. Yet despite knowing this, Byleth could not shake the weighted sensation settling on her chest. Not quite like the irritation simmering in Sothis, but a sensation that only grew heavier when she stopped their journey back to make camp.

Nightfall made the trek out of the canyon slower than they hoped. Being fairly new to this excursion, the Deer were dragging their feet and running on fumes. To make matters a bit more unpleasant, the scouts found traces of beasts lingering in the wilds. Encountering a pack of those would be perilous in their state. It was best to make camp and make for the monastery at first light.

Her forces had been divided. Most of the knights left to clean up what was left of the bandits, while the minority portion-church scouts, her mercenaries, and the Golden Deer-made for Garreg Mach by dawn.

They made their campsite near the outskirts of a small village enroute to the monastery. It was quiet sans the crackles and pops of the small fire. The Golden Deer were gathered around, closer to the warmth, sitting well away from the Jackals who were content to loiter at a distance, half-blending into the darkness. There was a dichotomy in the silence. While the students sat in a melancholic quiet, the mercenaries seemed comfortable or indifferent. It was as though the earlier skirmish never happened or was merely a daily occurrence to the mercenaries.

The Jackals went about minding their own. Fianna was oiling the sharp edge of her, now gore free, spear. Grigory was counting the loot pilfered from Kostas’s men. Wil simply sat on a stump while he scribbled in his pocket book with a stick of charcoal, occasionally sharpening the writing utensil’s end to a fine point with his dagger. As for Kazim, he had been absent since the rendezvous, something that the mercenaries hardly seemed bothered by, as though the possibility of one of their own dying weighed little to nothing on their conscience.

Hilda wasn’t sure if she was relieved to see the huntsman emerge from the woods, whistling a merry tune. Much of the man and these mercenaries associated with their professor made her feel unsure. The half-Duscurian looked to be in disturbingly good spirits as he carried what appeared to be a string of dead animals: rabbits, ducks, even a squirrel. On a better, bloodless day, such things would have made Hilda’s stomach grumble with anticipation. But after cleaving men like a butcher would with meat, the sight made her stomach twist unpleasantly.

Kazim set down his kills on the grass within viewing distance, and to their growing discomfort, began to gut and skin the woodland creatures.

There was a particularly loud sound of skin being torn from the flesh. Poor Marianne shuddered and shrank, Lysithea hugged her knees closer to her chest, and Lorenz’s scowl deepened as he sent a pointed glare at the man, sitting on the log with legs crossed and posture straight. Always the noble no matter the circumstance, she mused.

“Have you no decency?” He snapped.

“Eh, depends if it keeps us alive.” Kazim continued his work, not sparing a glance at the disgruntled youth. “Life doesn’t really give fucks about decency, does it? It aint gonna stop just cuz someone or something died… Neither should you unless you want to end up like the dead ones.” He dangled the skinned carcass of what appeared to be a squirrel for good measure, chuckling at the Gloucester heir’s disgusted look.

“Did you learn nothing from today’s field trip?” He pierced the meat with sharpened sticks and set them down near the flame.

“We learned that the Professor has some batshit ruthless friends.” Leonie muttered, more to herself.

As hushed as her statement had been, the keen ears of one Srengish shieldmaiden caught wind of the comment and scoffed.

“_Friend_? Tch, she is no friend. You do not befriend Siths.”

That foreign word again. By this point, they were all wondering what that meant. However, the thought of attracting that woman’s kohl-rimmed glare dissuaded most from asking.

Luckily for the Golden Deer, Claude curiosity outweighed whatever discomfort he may have felt. The boy seemed to be the least affected by what occurred today, looking lax and in relatively good spirits.

Claude leaned forward; eyes gleaming like emeralds in the firelight.

“What _is _a _Sith_, exactly?”

“Goddess, this again?” Wil rolled his eyes, shutting his pocket-book with a snap. He earned a seething look from the woman. “You and your tribal myths, Fianna… If you keep yapping about them, the Church just might fucking crucify us for spreading blasphemy.”

“There are truths to myths, you mangy cur.” She snapped.

“Come now, Villy! (Don’t call me that!) let comrade Fianna tell zhe _olen_ a story.” Grigory intervened before the two could escalate their spat.

“Tch.” Fianna spun her spear before stabbing it’s rear into the dirt, leaving it to stand like a marker of her strength while she neared the flame. She forced Grigory to scoot aside with a harsh foot before plopping down near the flames.

The shadow of the burning light illuminated every angle and dip of her sharp face in a haunting light, bringing forth an ominous air to her now pensive expression.

“Siths…” She began. “Elders of my clan speak of them. Beings who are not of this world and yet have dwelled here since before the rise of the sovereigns, you Fodlan folk revere so dearly. Siths are as fair and radiant upon first sight as they are ghastly in their wrath. They have no qualms with reaping the souls of good men simply for sport. They have no heart and so they will seek to devour the heart of others. They are not bound by humanity for they are not human. Some curse them as monsters in human skin. Others worship them as bringers good fortune. In war, they bring conquest, but in conquest, they bring death.”

With a stick, she stoked the flame. The flare made the golden green of her hazel gaze gleam brighter.

“Child of the Blade Breaker, Methinks is a Sith changeling… But you fawns figure out what you believe. My belief is my own.”

“… Do you believe it too, Grigory?” Lysithea asked, blinking owlishly. The man hailed from the same nation as his ally after all.

Grigory shrugged. “Can be. Can _not _be. But Grigory not care. Sith or no Sith, iz good money to fight wizh zhe _diamon_.”

There was a stretch of silence. It was cold and stifling silence, smothering the warmth of the fire, nestling into their blood. No one needed to ask what that word meant. The phonetics said enough.

Raphael broke the oddly heavy atmosphere with a hum. “And Siths can’t have friends?” He scratched his head. More befuddled than disturbed.

The warrioress let out a raucous bark of laughter, previous gravity seemingly forgotten. “Not this one. She is an admirable leader. A good killer. A fine predator. I trust her with mine shield and me spear. But friends… You drink yourself to a good piss with a friend. Have a laugh with a friend. Share some gossip with a friend. You give them a good beating when they’re being a bad fool or a hearty thump if they’re being a good fool. The Blade Breaker can be a friend, but any beating or thump the Sith gives will kill, will cripple, or will knock you out until the next morrow.”

“Iz harsh, Fianna, moi tovarisch. Iz Grigory your friend?”

“You’re a fucking nuisance.”

“Whatever she is, Boss is going to be hungry when she gets back.” Kazim commented idly. From on of his many pouches strapped to his leather straps, he pulled out some spices and began to season the meat before brushing his hands.

A stretch of silence surrounded the fire as the meat sizzled and popped until Claude once again inquired.

“So… if we’re doing this whole story-time by the campfire thing… What’s the story behind you guys and Teach?”

Yes, how exactly did their Professor, their animal loving, food scarfing, perpetually calm and composed instructor end up having and somehow disciplining what seemed to be a ruthless crew of homicidal warlords?

Yet another stretch of silence, this time more contemplative and less awkward. The mercenaries looked to one another, communicating through pointed looks, meaningful glares, and humored glances.

“Started working for Commander Jeralt first.” Wil explained, lazily waving a hand. “Then worked with her. Wasn’t too bad so I kept working with her.”

“Ha, he speaks as if he didn’t piss himself because of the _Sith_.”

For once, Wil looked less irate at Fianna’s barb and simply shrugged. “Better to piss myself than end up in pieces.”

“Gambled and Grigory lost very badly.” The heavily accented man laughed sheepishly. “Let zhat be lesson! Don’t make gamble against Professor. She iz _very_ ghut.”

“… The professor gambles?”

“Da.” Grigory nodded vigorously, and Kazim rolled his eyes at the scandalized expression on Lorenz’s face.

“How else do you expect her to pay Boss Jeralt’s tabs? The man can drink a tavern dry.”

“Bah, a wager of coffers is a cowards way of play. Typical of an Easterner.” Fianna grunted, “I made a wager of death. T’was a good fight. A great fight. Better to work with Sith than against, so I joined.”

Before Claude could ask, Wil elaborated.

“Fianna was hired by the opposing side in one of our jobs and commanded the vanguard. Her side didn’t really stand a chance. Not when the Commander deployed his daughter’s forces into the fray. Crazy clan custom or some shit made Fi challenge her to a one on one duel. Loser surrenders their forces and their life. Needless to say, Fianna lost. Guess she wanted to be on the winning side, because next thing we knew, she was patched up and hauling her shit to our campsite.”

Ignatz almost shuddered in a mix of awe and fear. Having seen Fianna fight firsthand, he could only imagine a duel between her and the Professor. It must have bewitchingly fierce like the painted depiction of the Crescent Moon Wars.

“And you, Kaz?” Hilda asked, turning heads to the man cooking before the campfire.

“Eh, not as grand as Fi’s.” The man shrugged but those silvered eyes held that secretive gleam. “Had nothing to lose and only things to gain if I joined the company, so I did.”

“…That’s it? She just let you join?”

“Heh, something like that.”

When the Deer turned their heads to Wil, the man only raised his arms.

“Don’t look at me. Kaz was the first ‘Jackal’. Always just been there since I first joined. A beta of sorts.”

“None of us know. Only rumors. They say you tried to kill her.” Fianna remarked, wearing a curious smirk.

“… are the rumors like your myths? With some truths behind them?” Lysithea pressed.

Silver met pink with a humored gleam. The huntsman stood up from his crouch by the fire, allowing the orange glow to shadow his face in a frightening light.

He smiled wider. Colder. “Who knows?”

The humored glint then darkened into cold steel. Kazim’s eyes narrowed at Raphael’s outstretched hand reaching for the squirrel roast. “Get your grubby paws off that skewer. It aint done yet, and it’s for your professor, you glutton. Each of you get one but leave the bloody squirrel.”

The brawny young man resembled a kicked puppy until Ignatz and Marianne spoke.

“I-I’m not hungry…” Marianne mumbled. “You can have my portion.”

“Me neither…” The bespectacled boy fared no better.

Previous slight forgotten, as was his nature, Raphael thanked them with the enthusiasm of a boy on St. Cethleann’s day.

Kazim then stood, stretching out his arms. “Wellp~, I’m off to see what our _Sith_ is up to.”

“Isn’t Teach scouting?”

“Aye, but she likes to linger in the meadows.” With that, Kazim departed into the shadows and once again, the Jackals eased into their own tasks in a comfortable silence while the rest seemed to be content in watching the flames… All except one.

.

...

.

With the excuse of needing to relieve himself, Claude walked away from the campsite. He made it a point to walk the opposite direction of Kazim, only to change his course once the woods hid him from view towards the man’s general direction.

The meadow… He’s seen in in passing when they first found their camp. It was near the corral fence that encircled a villager’s farmland. Spotting the fence, he followed its border, careful to stay within the concealment of the woods until sure enough, he spotted two figures in the night. Kazim with his silvered hair glowing under the moonlight, leaning against the fence while Byleth sat perched on the fencing, dark cloak billowing in the breeze. They were faced away from the woods, staring at the small meadow.

He had to be careful. Both were keen as foxes. A single rustle or the snap of a twig would alert them to his presence. Claude’s footing was light and hyperaware of each step until finally, he was within earshot of the two.

“…talked after the third or fourth fingernail. Not much of a tightlipped lot, if you ask me... Bit disappointing really.” Kazim bemoaned like a child losing their favorite toy.

“Did the knights intervene?”

A scoff followed by a rustle. Kazim leaped over the fencing and was crouching in the grass, fiddling with the flora. “I’m _offended_ you think I’d let them catch me, Boss. Fi made a swanky diversion. Bloody bull wyvern in glass shop that woman is when you give her the go. Her war cries muffled the screams, and I tossed the evidence off the cliff. Knights were none the wiser.”

Fingernails. Screams. Evidence. Claude felt a chill enter his blood recalling her commands.

_“Dissect what you can. Be thorough.”_

“Did they reveal their contractor?”

“'Fraid not. Got the sense that the contractor knew that Kostas was shit hire. No names and fewer witnesses. One of them saw a bloke in black and red, wearing a white mask.” Kazim began plucking and sniffing a blade of grass from a particularly large clump. “Hm. Lemongrass… If it were me, I would’ve captured the nobles for ransom. But they were tasked to kill them.”

“Money wasn’t their aim, then.” Byleth mused.

We’ve been involved in stopping assassination attempts in the past, Boss… What’s made you so keen on this one?”

“They the targeted the heirs of the three territories, simultaneously. It’s less isolated. It wasn’t just an assault on the Alliance, the Kingdom, or the Empire but all three at once. Such matters wouldn’t cripple a single territory but cause instability and unrest for the entire continent. The motives for doing such a thing.... Is it vengeance? Preparation for a foreign invasion?”

“Maybe some folks just want to watch the world burn.” Kazim shrugged, pocketing the lemongrass.

“Perhaps.”

“Anyways, why’s it matter to our lot? Aint like we ever owed allegiance to any of them. ‘specially not the church.”

Not even the church? That was both surprising and relieving for him. Byleth’s words halted Claude’s thoughts before he could ponder it further.

“It matters now.”

“Come again? Why’s that, Boss?”

“Because they’re my students.”

There was a pregnant pause. Then a soft chuckle.

“Do the tykes know how much you care about them?”

“…I don’t see how that matters, Kaz.”

“Aye… y’know most of us thought it was codswallop when we heard you became an instructor for some posh academy. Fianna says you’re getting soft. Creeps her out.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Not really. Think it quite suits you.”

“Is that so?” Her dark head turned to her companion, who stood to lean back against the fence.

“You’re a lot livelier. I’ve known you for a little while longer than most. You like this better than being a sell sword.”

“It’s different.”

“But better to be called ‘Professor’ or ‘Teach’ than ‘Sith’ or ‘Ashen Demon, ain’t I right?”

She released her grip on the fence and closed her legs, resting her hands on her lap. Her voice grew quieter, forcing Claude to lean forward and cup his ears to hear her.

“After today, it’s likely that I will have the latter moniker with them as well.”

“Don’t be so sure about that, Boss. They’re knackered but not weak, your deer. At some point, they have to learn the hard lesson of life’s shite reality. You taught them that with today’s bloodletting.”

“…Was it not wrong?”

“Pardon?” Kazim straightened, sounding surprised. He crossed his arms and scrutinized the woman he called his superior.

“Was it wrong? Could there have been a better way to teach them?”

“Bless my mutt-blooded arse, never thought I’d see you troubled by your methods.”

“Kazim.” Byleth was not amused.

The said huntsman did not chuckle with teasing amusement or trademark sarcasm. He sighed instead, leaning once more to the fence, arms still crossed.

“…Sometimes, I forget how fucking young you are, Boss. Don’t give me those eyes, I don’t mean disrespect… I’d like to keep the rest of mine fingers, thank you kindly.”

“Then what did you mean?” She inquired.

“I mean we all forget… Us Jackals met you as just that; feral strays left like a pile of horse shit on the side of the road. We met Byleth Eisner as the Ashen Demon, not ‘professor’, ‘teach’ or whatever the bloody, sappy fuck these tossers call you. There was no ‘wrong’ way for the Ashen Demon to whip some decency into our lot.”

Their lot… The circumstances of these mercenaries were vastly different from the Golden Deer. Theirs offered no room for such luxuries and grace as being kindly introduced in a secure academic setting. Back then, the vast majority saw them as an unstable investment; with raw potential left unhandled, left to become too volatile to be considered viable by most-even among the mercenaries. When the Eisners met them, society had turned away from them and in return, each and every one of them had turned away from society in their own broken way.

And thus in their own way, committed their loyalty to the Ashen Demon as her seconds. Whether it was because following her proved to be the most optimal decision (as it was for Grigory and Wil, who had been recommended by Jeralt) or like Kazim and Fianna, it was because a trust was formed through her establishing fierce dominance as an alpha wolf would in its pack.

Fighting was Fianna’s first and most intimate language. The woman hailed from a warrior tribe far up Sreng’s northern wilds that thrived off battle. Every conflict, no matter how petty or trivial, was usually resolved by a trial of combat. Much of why she came to Fodlan remained unsaid-which was nothing unusual for their lot, but she came seeking a challenge. She found that challenge in Byleth. In her eyes, the Ashen Demon was a goldmine.

A sane Fodlani would have avoided Byleth like a lethal plague if they were beaten black, blue, and bloody as Fianna had been during their first encounter. The woman had hungrily demanded a duel after the company’s forces overwhelmed her own when she had been hired by a criminal head Byleth was tasked with eliminating. Byleth acquiesced upon the agreement that Fianna’s forces would surrender if she won, and she won viciously.

As for him… Kazim’s circumstance was far less straightforward but no less brutal, and in that complexity, his loyalty was forged far deeper than that of earning coin and staying alive-not that he was one to ever admit it. Regardless of their cruel first encounter, she earned his loyalty and his respect.

So regardless of Fianna’s words, while Byleth might remain distant from her own fighters, she was the closest thing Kazim would consider a friend. The world he knew was unforgiving and cruel, full of pretty lies and hideous truths, a world with no place for true “friends”. But if such thing existed within his bitter realm of existence, Byleth of all people deserved to be considered as such.

So he spoke in a rare show of sincerity untainted by the mocking wit he’s honed.

“I don’t think there ain’t no wrong or right way with this… Mayhaps an easy or hard way. If that’s the case, then I’d argue you were easy…. Easier than you have been… Even then, it ain’t easy teaching anyone about this sort of shit but better to start with the blood of a thief than a farmer or a knight on their hands.”

He scratched his nose then and fiddled a bit with its piercing.

“If you ask me, the tykes are lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Aye… If fortune favored me more, and we met earlier, life would have been very different for me. Different but maybe better and with far less regrets.”

“If we met earlier, one of us might have wound up dead.” She deadpanned.

“Oy, that’s a little severe.” A voice of mock hurt. “Maybe I’d lose more than two fingers but…”

“Depends if younger you had more thought to where you place your hands.”

Kazim chuckled. It was a real chuckle, filled with mirth absent of its usual twisted edge.

“Someone needs to teach them about the world and toughen them up a bit to handle its shit. I see no one better for the task than you, but like I said… you’re young. Feel free to act like your age for once.”

“…and what does that involve?”

“Bloody hell if I know.” He shrugged, comically mystified before waving off the thought. “I saved you a squirrel skewer. Not as good as it is stewed, but it’s spiced.”

“I’ll join when the students are asleep.”

“Feeling shy?” Kazim teased.

“… Would they want to be near the Ashen Demon any more than they need to be after tonight?”

The man hummed and turned his head over his shoulder. Claude’s breath hitched. He didn’t need the moonlight to see those pale eyes looking at him knowingly, unhindered by the shadows in which Claude thought kept him well concealed.

“Mmmm… I think the deer feel safer knowing this teacher is more than capable of watching their back.”

“… Thank you, Kaz.”

“Anytime, Boss.” He turned then, fully facing the woods, his eyes locked on the Riegan heir. With a nimble hop, he leaped over the fence.

“Kaz.” Before he could leave, she handed him a bundled cloth. “Blueberries and peppermint. I found some while scouting the area…. For those who won’t eat.”

“Heh. You _are _getting soft.” He chuckled.

Kazim departed from the fence, making a beeline for the woods where Claude stood. There was little point in retreating at this point. The man made it clear he knew Claude was eavesdropping, yet he did not stop his conversation and confront him. So Claude stayed standing, easing his footing, posturing himself into a calm and confident demeanor of his own as Kazim sauntered towards him.

He expected some verbal exchange. Maybe a veiled threat or some barbed words. But the man simply gave his shoulder a pat and shoved him forward, towards the enigmatic woman sitting and staring at the meadow.

He stumbled in his footing, eyes wide at the exchange, and cringed when a twig snapped under his boot. The snap was like a crack of lightning, louder than the chirping crickets nearby. However, his teacher did not turn or even make a twitch at the sudden sound.

She seemed content to sit and wait for his approach or simply have him leave without an explanation or even a greeting.

For a moment, Claude stood there and stared, stared at this reserved woman illuminated by the moonlight. There was something solemn about her silhouette then, how she sat by herself in silence, reminding him of Fianna’s words.

_“… she is no friend. You do not befriend, Siths.”_

An outcast even among her own mercenaries, who seem to be pariah themselves. In the mystery that enshrouded her, the woman he called Teach looked lonely then. As though she were separated from the rest by an unseen rift.

_“Similar we may be, but I am not you, Claude.”_

Indeed. Hers was not an issue of race as his often was, nor did she hide behind smiles and diverting wit. While he couldn’t ascertain whether people were openly hostile due to her aberrant behavior, it was clear they kept their distance. A look at her blank face and claim her heartless, inhuman, unable to see beyond that, see her efforts…

How she ran and stood before Edelgard to deflect a lethal blow for the princess, how she studied her students and the education system to best perform her task, how she tended to her haughty barn owl companion and the strays of the monastery with treats readily on her person, how she listened with intent every time he or one of the deer spoke to her, How she held the flower her father bequeathed her with a gentleness belying her countenance and smelled the bloom.

It dawned on Claude then. She was sincerer than him, in some sense. Honest in her actions, unfettered and unsullied into cunning, silver tongued deceit by discrimination, while being no less clever in mind. To have such a nature despite the circumstance is to be truly kind. Far kinder than the vast majority of people, commoners and nobles alike. To think such a person existed, and that person chose to give the resources available to her person to the Golden Deer, to him. Such fortune seemed too good to be real in Claude’s opinion.

Yet there she was, sitting peacefully and patiently before him. Not minding his act of dropping eaves.

So, Claude von Reigan approached her. He crossed the invisible rift between and leaned against the fence an arms-length away from Byleth.

“… Lysithea will really like the berries.” He said. “She tries to hide it, but she loves sweets.”

“I see.”

He paused, casting her a sidelong glance. She was staring at the pond with a calmness softer than that of the one she bore in the skirmish. Patient and waiting.

“… They called you Ashen Demon.”

She nodded slowly. The gesture coaxed him to ask further.

“… Is it a name you and your crew gave you? To accompany the ‘Blade Breaker’?”

She mulled in silence, dipping her head to look at her hands, eyes lidded, catching the moon’s silvered light with her lashes.

“When people looked to me, they saw a demon…. A phantom…” She blinked, tilting her head in that pensive way of hers. “I was young. I didn’t understand that some people demonized things they feared or couldn’t comprehend. I merely took that title and thought, surely… if the many faces that look my way believe me to be a demon… a monster… perhaps I am one.”

“Are you okay with that?” Something inside him softened. He felt sad on her behalf, on the thought of a younger Byleth, with large and innocent eyes staring at strangers who kept their distance, hissing and whispering harsh words while she wondered what she did wrong. He understood deeply, deeper than far most how painful the prejudice truly was.

“Does it matter whether I approve or not? It never changed their views. People are inclined to their own opinions.”

And yet she was far kinder than he, perhaps to a point where it could be considered naïve. Kind but not nice, because niceties tended to be frivolous if not full of deceit. He tended to be nice for that reason for he was a schemer after all…

Therein lied the advantage he had in this exchange, something that pleased him yet once again, stirred an unusual hesitation to his opportunistic person.

And so the Schemer turned and fully faced the Ashen Demon.

“It matters.” Tone severe, lips curved into a frown, he stared at her. “It matters to me.”

Rare was it for Claude to be as sincere and sober like this, thus indigo eyes turned.

There was a softness in his viridian gaze, a softness that infected his smirk.

“I don’t think you’re a demon. A pretty scary enemy to have, yeah, but to me… You’re ‘Teach’. So, no matter what they say, I could care less about how many souls you reap or hearts you devour… just as long as it isn’t my own.” He teased with a wink.

She blinked; eyes owlish as they drank his bright eyes and the smile on his lips.

“Reaping souls and devouring hearts… Fianna has been regaling you with fables.”

“Only one. Scary and a bit war crazy, but that woman is a pretty compelling storyteller.”

“Hm. Did she tell you about how I bewitched a Brigid sea captain with my ‘fae sorcery’?”

“What?” He laughed, standing upright. “You’re joking.”

She let out a soft snort and hopped off her perch while Claude tried to imagine how such incident would happen. “Fianna has an odd way of interpreting things, but it makes for a good campfire tale. Come along, Mr. Riegan. We should return to the others."

Ah, again with that 'Mr. Riegan'. At least this time came marginally warmer from her lips. 

They walked in a comfortable silence.

Then Byleth spoke.

“Claude?”

The said student nearly fumbled to a stop.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He intertwined his hands and leaned against them as they rested behind his head.

“For what, Teach?”

“For caring less.”

* * *

_AUGH. I cannot sleep with all the fretting your mind is doing. They’re alive and well, Byleth._

And yet the memories still lingered. How Leonie held her stomach, struggling to keep her entrails from spilling when Fianna’s group was flanked by an ambush when rendezvousing with the rest of them. How Raphael’s arm was left hanging by a flap of flesh when he blocked an axe from coming down on Lorenz.

How the vibrance of Claude’s green eyes dimmed dull like that of a firefly as he bled out in her arms, an arrow protruding from his neck.

Thrice, she rewound time and broke the reality around her. Thrice, she denied death, denied its claim on these youths she called her students.

When they return to Garreg Mach, she would have to set some time and rearrange their lesson plan. Leonie needed to capitalize her reflexes with better form. Lorenz would do well to learn some first-aid faith magic. It was plausible that Marianne had a talent for the lance-at least have a two-handed weapon would serve the girl better, give her steadier hands. Ignatz, from what Fianna told her, had far better accuracy than most and showed a surprising amount of tact when leading their battalion, but his strength was poor. He would make a better assassin than a “boring-as-pissing-sober knight”. It would be beneficial for the boy to receive pointers from Kazim to hone that potential.

It beleaguered her. How, despite her planning, despite her orders, despite her mercenaries following her lead as well as they always did, if not more because of the “precious cargo”, she still experienced the loss. Even if Sothis granted her the impossible power to undo the loss…

_You will still feel the loss. That is the price of my Divine Pulse. The burden of being the only one knowing, the only one to taste the cruel what-if of possibilities. _

Indeed… But they were well now. Sleeping, some fitfully, huddled on their sleeping rolls and blankets. Alive and in once piece. Well worth the price those memories. Even if it set her on edge.

Sothis snorted, languidly stretched upon her throne.

_And they believe you to be absent of heart. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY FINISHED THIS PART. I WHEEZE AND CRACK MY STIFF BONES.   
This chapter was partially designed for me to practice writing out OCs. While Jeralt's mercenaries weren't given much of an identity in the game, I'd like to think of that as an opportunity for me to create some diverse characters, all of who are rejected by society in their own way. With Byleth being the way she is, I imagined that she has a very specific, selected few she trusts enough to be her lieutenants of sort. She's not a very orthodox person thus works with unorthodox people.   
If all goes smoothly, I'll go into detail later on about the backstory or each OC. For now, I have to sleep. I'm starting to get a bit delirious from the lack of sleep.   
.  
In the mean time, I hope everyone is in good physical and mental health. Black Lives Matter. It's really frustrating that people have to fight to make something that should be obvious known.


	7. Jeralt: Fathers, Fishing, and a Fellow Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a fine summer day. Jeralt takes a moment to ponder and reminisce on single fatherhood as he spends some quality time with his young daughter, the smol Byleth.

_ His friends claimed him to be stricken dumb, teased him for “how far the Blade Breaker hath fallen”, but he hardly cared. He married the most beautiful woman in all of Fodlan if not the world. He got the last laugh when those fools were stricken dumb, their mouths agape long enough to swallow a fly when they saw her walk down the aisle; her visage so divine, so sacrosanct, the guests thought her a saint._

_ He took her to the sea for their honeymoon. It was a place not too far from the monastery, with secure roads made safer by guards handpicked by Rhea herself. It had taken no small amount of pleading on both their parts to convince the archbishop to allow this brief excursion. As frustrating as her reluctance had been, he understood her concerns. His wife (his wife!) had a weak constitution. She was akin to the flowers she so dearly cherished: beautiful but fragile._

_ But even Rhea, in all her stern but tender affections with the woman she considered her own, could not bear to deny sweet Sitri when the denial made her wilt so mournfully. The gentle-hearted nun never asked for much of anything in her sheltered life. It felt cruel to disallow her this indulgence. _

_So, she saw them off, escorted him and Sitri to the carriage herself with some of the finest knights the church had to offer. The security had been a bit overbearing, but if it appeased Lady Rhea and brought Sitri out of the steel wrought gates, he’d allow an entire army of infantry, cavalry and airborne riders to accompany them. Besides, when the coast was clear and the monastery was out of sight, Jeralt summoned his horse-dutifully brought by one of his subordinates conveniently tasked to be their guard-and lifted the new Lady Eisner out of the carriage and onto the steed. He’ll accept the consequences wholeheartedly if or when the Archbishop hears of this minor disobedience. _

_However, there was something giddy about the act, especially when he saw Sitri smile with a knowing gleam of mischief as he helped her onto his steed. Goddess, they were acting no better than those impish, besotted students at the Officer Academy. _

_They went at a leisure pace, in no rush on their honeymoon. When he smelled the telltale tang of salt in the air, he had his horse enter into a gallop, earning a surprised squeal and delighted laugh from his wife. _

_Be it decades or centuries, he would never forget this honeymoon. The joy felt was etched into his soul. _

_ He wished he knew how to draw to preserve the sight before him; how her eyes mirrored the sheen of the waters; how the sea breeze combed her silken scarf and hair; how the shimmering reflection of sunlight on the ocean horizon seemed to halo her entire figure; and most importantly how she smiled that mesmerizing smile of hers. Those soft, cupid bow lips parted and curled. _

_The sands, bathed by the tide, began to swallow her feet. She laughed causing his heart to swell. _

_He didn’t think it was possible to love her more, to be more enraptured by her. She was so beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. Her smile for the flowers he bequeathed her paled in comparison to the radiance of her joy when he brought her to the sea; a place she had only read about in books behind the cold stone walls and lonely corridors of the monastery. _

_ It was a short honeymoon, short and simple but sweet. In the full day they had at the beach, he walked along the shoreline, arms linked with his wife who sported a wide brimmed fishing hat gifted to her by a fisherman thoroughly charmed by her innocence, protecting her fair complexion from the sun. When she tired, she slept secured within the opulent carriage provided by the church while he fished at the pier for their dinner. _

_He thought it impossible to see Sitri happier than that day, and it weren’t as though the moments following after were any less joyful-since she had put on that ring, there was seldom a moment he didn’t see her smile. _

_But he was proven wrong when he found her at the Star Terrace one twilight, standing with the blooming waterlilies, tearfully smiling while her hand tenderly tracing her flat lower belly. _

Imperial Year 1165, Garland Moon, Nuvelle Territory

The child was still so quiet. She was at around five years of age, and Jeralt was beginning to fear her permanently mute. Not once had he heard a single sound from her cupid bow lips. Not a whimper when she fell flat on her face after attempting to take her first step, not a cry when a group of nasty little village brats played a cruel game of ‘slay the monster’ and wacked her with sticks until she frightened them… He had even tried forcing a giggle from her, tickling her feet and ribs, but as a babe she only squirmed and wriggled in discomfort. The most he’d ever hear was an occasional sneeze and perhaps a sigh.

The sun was bright in the early day, with just enough cloud coverage and ocean breeze to stave off the summer heat. The sailors were pleased to inform him that they would be arriving in Nuvelle a day earlier than expected, the winds having favored them since their departure from Kingdom territory. The sea was greener here, clearer and calmer than the rough, foam riddled waves of the Kingdom’s northern coast.

It was almost poetic to compare the state of the seas to the state of the two territories. Rumors of a devastating sickness began to spread in Faerghus, and he wasn’t one to linger to confirm whether the rumors were true. Unlike revolts or raids, a plague had no opportunity for the likes of him, and he had his child to think about. Considering the unrest stirring nearer to Fhirdiad, with how the people were shutting their doors at earlier hours and shooing away foreign faces from their lands, the rumors had their truth.

By some stroke of luck, he had managed to find favor and struck a deal accompanying a friendly merchant’s ship sailing for the Southeastern ports of Nuvelle, a faster mode of transportation for the fair price of some protection should the ship have an unsavory encounter with pirates and some help carrying the heavy load aboard the ship. Thankfully, the sailing had been pirate-free but not without some rough waves that had, on occasion, his stomach doing flips and little Byleth gripping the riggings.

Speaking of his little girl, she had taken to sailing on a ship rather well. A discovery he found surprising yet not truly so, for Byleth was full of surprises-some not as pleasant. Her countenance remained as calm and indifferent as ever, even when sprayed by the salty droplets from a particularly stubborn wave. She simply shook herself off like a mildly disgruntled feline and went about her business which involved staring into the distance-he had quickly disallowed his curious child from peering over the edge of the rails and humoring the ship’s cat.

Even the sailors had praised the girl for her “sea legs” as she toddled about the ship on her dainty little feet. Jeralt wasn’t much of a sea faring soul himself, but it had been a pleasant ride when it lasted, made bearable by the crew’s kindness to his daughter. Though wary at first with the child’s odd demeanor, they warmed up to her quickly when their ship’s cat took a particular liking to her-purring against her leg, basking on her lap, and grooming her head.

The sailors had been pleasantly surprised that their grumpy, borderline feral, and scruffy looking tortoiseshell ‘Mr. Pickle’ took to the strange little girl and-with the usual superstitious tendency of seamen-claimed such sight to be a good omen. It was a relieving irony for the Eisners after having their fair share of hostility flung their way in the past.

These sailors were the good sort who would merrily tend to the ship while singing their own sea shanties, not minding Byleth when she sat upon a sealed barrel like an observant little bird with Mr. Pickle napping beside her.

Nevertheless, while it had been better than what he expected, Jeralt was all too eager to set his feet on solid ground as they reached the warmer southern waters and spotted one of Nuvelle territory’s portside towns. They parted ways with the merchant and his crew, and though still as quiet as a mouse, stoic little Byleth gave a parting pat to Mr. Pickle.

By the early dawn, they had settled into an inn and napped until the midmorning summer heat made staying in the bedroom uncomfortable. The day was still young with plenty to do. He could seek another job, perhaps find some fellow sell swords at the tavern to partner up with for better work, but when Byleth stretched her elfin little body as tall as she could to peer through the window, he decided today would be a day of leisure.

“Hey kid,” She turned to look at him. He yawned and stretched before asking. “you up to explore a bit?”

She bobbed her head in a simple but quick nod.

Mutism and shyness were hardly banes when compared to the worse fates one could be born with. Being blind or deaf in their nomadic, skirmish seeking world was a crueler fate. While it was a father’s hope that his child would grow without suffering greater struggle than the ones apparent to every person, Jeralt did enough wallowing in disappointment for one day. His daughter was healthy, ate with a hearty appetite that belied her dainty little stature, and she was far from dimwitted. Though silent, there was a keenness in her eyes; she was always watching, observing, soaking in the world around her. Her personality was unfledged and hard to decipher, but he could at least distinguish the curiosity. Said trait was made more apparent when they headed into the marketplace. 

The silent duo walked around the markets, perusing the town’s goods, making mental notes of what they could purchase later to restock on camping supplies. Despite the town’s quaint nature compared to the greater harbor city of Nuvelle, it was clear the territory’s wealth from being a central trading point for Dagda, Brigid, and Albinea made this portside community flourish.

It was a colorful place, with decorative lamps strung like paths from each vendor’s little flagpole or sign, selling a number of exotic goods, some so foreign even to someone as old and experienced as himself: white combs intricately carved from whale bone, shimmering fabrics with forty different shades of blue, jewelry made from milky green stones called jade that was said to bring good fortune, and odd looking melon sized edible goods called coconuts that seemed to garner Byleth’s interest considering the way she peered at the tub of water the green fruits floated in.

Jeralt wasn’t one to indulge in fervent spending-though he did indulge in ale, but in his defense, he hardly ever paid for those tabs. Longevity in a sell sword’s life meant being frugal and making purchases on not a want but a need basis. However, seeing a noticeable intrigue in Byleth, how her lashes fluttering from the rapid blinking and her large eyes would have a focused stare, was rarer than spotting a fully grown white wyvern.

It was heartwarming as it was painful to notice, and he always noticed.

Sitri had that same tendency back then; before the rapture filled days when he finally called her his, when she hid her face behind a veil of a lonely countenance-a distant apathy both melancholic as it was serene-until he gave her that flower; the first flower of many.

_ It had been nothing more than a small sprig of peach blossoms that had wound up snagged onto his cloak, a gift bequeathed out of amicable convenience and nothing more._

_ And yet… _

_“Thank you.” He never saw that look before. The sudden brightness in those eyes, made greater by the fluttering of her long lashes as she blinked. It lit up her cool demeanor like a candle in the dark. _

“Only about five coins for one! Just arrived from Brigid.” The seller grinned toothily, pulling Jeralt out of his reverie.

The pair ended up wandering about the streets, each with their own coconut. While he held his with a single hand, little Byleth had to hold hers with both. The coconut was bigger than her head, making for a comical sight. The vender had hacked a large hole atop the coconut’s hard shell with a machete and stuck in it was what appeared to be a tiny wooden pipe he called a “straw” along with a small, whittled spoon. Magic made the tub’s water icy and slushed, making the sweet refreshment far more satisfying on this hot summer day.

They eventually sat on a bench with a seaside view to finish their drink and discovered that the makeshift little spoon was used to scoop out the white, gelatinous inside. It had an odd, creamy aftertaste and overall wasn’t bad, but he decided he didn’t prefer it. Byleth, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the exotic treat, considering how she fervently carved the inner part of the coconut to get every morsel she could like some obsessive woodcarver. He opted to give her the rest of his-not without scraping the inner part to save her the trouble.

A flock of maidens passed by with smiles at the sight of the pair, to which Jeralt returned with a polite smile that had them tittering. They did not seem to Byleth’s lack of greeting as she was too preoccupied with her snack and merely cooed at her doll-like appearance briefly before parting.

Good. He did not want their stay ruined this soon by suspicion and gossip. If they dawdled around any longer, the women might have resorted to such after witnessing his daughter’s uncanny behavior.

Overall, the portside town was nice enough for a moment of respite. The folks seemed accustomed to having a diverse array of strangers visiting their town and were cordial, minding their own for the most part.

For lunch they found themselves at a small local pub closer to the docks. The local customers weren’t the most welcoming sort but they minded their own business which was more than enough for him. On the other hand, the cook-a gruff, burly man with a stubble jaw-warmed up to them quickly upon seeing the quiet child wolf down a large platter of grilled Albinean herring, roasted turnips and potatoes, pickles, and a side of his special spiced shrimp pasta.

“… Lil’ lass can really eat.” Mouth full and resembling an autumn squirrel with puffy cheeks, she left nothing less than a clean plate as she chewed.

“You’re telling me.” At the very least, what liveliness Byleth lacked in emoting, she compensated with her appetite. Often, he wondered where it all went. She was more willowy than other children her age, her height remained at the average, yet she ate like she had an endless pit in her belly.

“Yeh a merc?”

“On most days.”

“And today?” The man asked, smiling when Byleth stacked the empty plates together and neatly placed the utensils atop the stack, making them easier to collect. “Thank yeh, lil’ lass.”

“Today, I’m just a man with his kid.” Jeralt’s gaze scanned the pub. The men in this place gave him an idea. “Maybe a fisherman if I can find a rod and a spot.”

The cook mulled over his words for a brief moment before gesturing to the nearby corner. “Yeh can borrow mine. There’s a bait shop just a few paces down the road. Keep walking until you spot an ol’ pier. Feel free to try yer luck there.”

“Really?” The generosity made him blink and regard the man with a bit of disbelief.

The cook merely chuckled. “Don’t thank me just yet. If yeh nab something good, like one of ‘em eels, I want half the spoils.”

“Deal.”

._._._.

She seemed to like the beach. Jeralt observed as they walked along the shore towards the designated fishing spot. While he kept his boots firmly on his feet and trudged along the drier parts of the shore, she carried her slippers and left footprints in the wet sand while walking a few paces ahead. When the tides rose and enveloped her feet in a sheet of seawater, she paused and looked down. Then she wriggled her ten little toes as they sank into the sand.

He stopped. It should have been a trivial observation, nothing out of the ordinary or worth sentiments… yet it reminded him of her, of days that felt more like a sweet dream than a cherished memory.

Sitri had done the same thing when she stepped foot onto the shore for the first time. But while Sitri had smiled and laughed, commenting on the sight of the sea, the child remained quiet like a hollow, halfhearted replica of the woman who birthed her at the expense of her life. Such thoughts made his chest tighten and twist-and it wasn’t from the usual bittersweet nostalgia.

The feeling worsened when Byleth turned and stared at him with those blank eyes.

It was shame that plagued his chest, a feeling as immediate as a slap in the face from a spurned maiden. If there was fault to be had for the aberrance of Byleth’s behavior, for their circumstances, it did not lie with her-lest it was a crime to be conceived. But a selfish part of him still yearned for assurance. He longed for some certainty and comfort that his child would grow to thrive and not merely survive. It wasn’t as though he hoped she’d frolic through meadows and laugh away her worries while reading tales of romance and chivalry, but Goddess was it a fool’s dream to hope to hear her voice sometime soon?

The pier was an even quieter place, only occupied by a pair of old men too invested in their little banter about the best bait to reel in an eel to spare the two a glance. The platform stretched out a decent distance towards the sea, far enough that it was hard to distinguish the reef that lay underwater at the very end of the pier. The pier’s path was narrow, and the railing was minimal, done on only one side and left wide open at the end. When they began settling down at their fishing spot, he kept Byleth close. Teaching the child how to swim hadn’t really been on his list of priorities.

However, it wasn’t reasonable to expect Byleth to simply stand still while he fished. While her face was that of a statue, she, in contrast, was not quite as stationary as others would expect from someone so mellow-looking. By the time she could crawl, when left to her own devices, Byleth had a tendency to mosey about to examine things she thought was of intrigue.

Another parent would have considered such traits-stealth, curiosity, and a penchant for meandering-to be a hazardous, but for him, seeing Byleth exhibit _any_ human behavior was good behavior.

“If you’re gonna walk about, don’t wander off too far. Stay on the pier and in sight.” He paused, mulling over his instructions before adding, “And for your old man’s sake, don’t fall in the water.”

She nodded, keenly watching while he speared a wriggling earthworm onto his fishing hook. After it was secured, Jeralt sat on the edge with a grunt and swung his rod, adding a flick of his wrist for good measure. Violet blues followed the end of the hook until it plopped into the water and watched.

He didn’t spend much time wondering how long she would stand there and stare. After a few heartbeats, she turned and wandered off, leaving him in the company of the sea and his thoughts.

This portside town was a quaint place with just enough people to make it lively but not too crowded for his liking. It was an ideal place to settle down for more than a moment of respite. In the recent years, the Church’s influence seemed to wane over Adrestian territory. The risk of avoiding religious officials in these parts-especially those who might be tasked to search for him-was low. Nesting in this town would be comfortable.

However, all this musing was wishful thought. They didn’t have the financial means to settle in this portside, and it didn’t look as though it was a place that needed his sort of expertise. And despite the comforts and indulgences this place provided, staying in one place for too long was a gamble he wasn’t willing to take. Coastal towns like this one, especially in Nuvelle territory, were trading hotspots. While this place may not be as densely populated as some mainland cities and larger ports, it still had its fair share of traffic. A flow of people meant a flow of rumors, and the last thing Jeralt would ever do is underestimate the Archbishop’s resources to track even the smallest of rumors of the “Blade Breaker”.

At some point, they’ll have to travel a little more south towards Hreving, perhaps take another ship to cross the gulf and reach Hresvelg territory. Hopefully, he’ll have made enough by then to afford the seafaring path and if not, at least find a handful of decent mercenaries to partner with him for bigger jobs. He’s partied in and out with enough sell swords to have an idea of what and who to seek, has a large enough network to reunite with some along the way who would be more open to a more cemented partnership.

The world of mercenaries was an everchanging one. Comrades came and went in varying levels of acquaintanceship from downright hostile and homicidal to cordial and heartwarming. It wasn’t uncommon for two sell swords who shared good rapport to part ways only to reunite once again after a few seasons pass. The paths of mercenaries diverged and converged like a messy, tangled web.

However, there were seldom few who fit into this amicable category for Jeralt. When carrying something as eerily bizzare as a listless, silent baby whilst avoiding one of Fodlan’s most influential organizations, one had to take extra precautions about who to let in their life. He had traveled more like a fugitive than a nomad, never losing his vigilance. Some mercenaries had called him overtly paranoid for a man so capable on the battlefield, brushed it off as the instincts of an overprotective father.

If only they knew… He killed enough hunters and hid enough bodies to accept paranoia as a small price to pay.

Something caught his periphery, distracting his contemplation. Byleth had returned, so quiet in her footsteps, he wasn’t sure how long she stood there. But that wasn’t what had him raising his brow.

She brought two new things with her: a small fishing rod and a wide brimmed hat made of straw. The hat sat on her little head, clearly a bit oversized considering the way it covered her brows. She had to lift her chin higher and tilt her head to meet his gaze. It was adorable.

“Where did you find those?”

A dainty finger pointed to the only other fisherman duo on the pier with them. Honeyed eyes followed and landed on the fishermen pair-the only other folks fishing on this pier. They gave the girl a lazy little wave, passing the greeting to Jeralt with a toothy smile and nod before returning to their own angling.

Really, his child was a wonder. He could only imagine how the silent interaction went.

“They let you borrow all that?”

A nod. The hat shifted and sank down lower on her head. She readjusted the apparel and looked up once more.

Unbeknownst to her, the sight struck her father with yet another recollection; memories of a tender honeymoon with walks along the beach, the sweet bells of laughter, and a smiling, flushed face peeking from the shade of a borrowed fisherman’s hat.

This moment wasn’t a perfect replica of that time. There was still no smile or laughter from Byleth-perhaps there will never be, but it was what remained of Sitri.

It was only a remnant. A fragment. A piece.

But such thoughts and comparisons weren’t entirely true or fair. That was ascertained when little Byleth held out the borrowed fishing rod, almost looking expectant.

It took him a moment to understand.

“You want to fish?”

He hadn’t expected this. Sitri, as enthused as she was about eating his catch, only shared a mild interest in the hobby purely because it was something he enjoyed and did not participate herself. Byleth seemed determined to fish, now holding onto the hook with one hand while crouching down to the box of bait. She pulled out an earthworm and focused on piercing the squirming little creature onto the curved point.

The sight warmed him with an important reminder: this kid was just as much his as she was Sitri’s.

It was comforting, especially when his own child lacked any physical resemblance to his hulking form. There were plenty of moments revealing their relations earned them only skepticism. Perhaps that was a blessing from the Goddess. He wasn’t exactly a looker compared to her mother.

Speaking of his child, the girl was still trying to skewer the squirming bait onto her hook. Best to help her before she stabbed it through her finger.  
“Give it here to your old man.”

Obediently she did, watching intently as he accomplished what she could not in a matter of seconds.  
“C’mere.” He brought her closer and guided her small hands towards the handle.

“Now, the trick is to keep your arm relaxed. Make sure you know where your hook is and swing it around not over your head, so it doesn’t snag you.”

With one hand, he dwarfed hers while guiding her through the motion. Soon the line went into the water a good distance away from his own to prevent tangling.

“Hold on tight. When a fish bites, your line will start getting twitchy. Don’t yank it up as soon as you feel that twitch or else you might lose the fish and your line. Let the fish tug a bit, tire it out, and then pull it out from the water.”

She gave a nod and stared owlishly at the submerged line in the distance. Jeralt chuckled, letting go and returning to his own rod to the tension on his own line. He gave a content sigh as he sat on the edge. Byleth followed suit, mirroring his posture, her own dainty feet dangling over the pier.

A tranquil silence hung between father and daughter.

._._._.

It was a good day. Here he was in Nuvelle, having some quality time with his child doing something he loved while sea breeze helped keep the summer sun’s heat at bay. There was little doubt he’ll tan a bit more after this, but better him than his porcelain skinned daughter. Pale little thing might turn into a bright red sea prawn without the wide brimmed hat. He’ll have to thank the fishermen later, perhaps with a drink or with a meal if he caught anything decent.

Minutes turned into an hour. The fish still weren’t biting, but he didn’t mind. There was joy to be had in this moment of tranquility at least for him. As for Byleth it was hard to pinpoint much of anything by sight. She had not moved since casting her line, aside from the twitch of her dangling fit. Either it was patience or resilience but most certainly impressive. Only a toddler and his kid was better than that loudmouthed knight.

Alois… He wondered briefly how he fared and whose poor ear he now abused.

A twitch on his lining caught his attention. Jeralt gave a few small tugs of his line. Nothing. Perhaps the fish nibbled but did not bite. He considered recasting his line when he caught movement in his periphery.

Byleth was emulating his motions with a dutiful air, earning an affectionate chuckle. Abnormal as she may be, she had her cute moments. He turned and stared off into the distance. While it was only a temporary time and place of reprieve, he savored the moment of merely being a father with their own child. Who knew when they could do this again? He let out a content sigh.

“We’ll have to leave the day after tomorrow. There’s not much a merc can do in a town as quiet and peaceful as this, but this place is sure nice. Enjoy it while you can, kid.”

Byleth merely nodded and continued to give a few tugs. Was she finally getting impatient?

“Don’t expect a bite any time soon, kid. ” He advised, closing his eyes when the sea breeze caressed his nape. “It’ll take a while to catch something, and sometimes you might not catch any-”

** SPLASH**

“-thing...” There was no warning. No cry of surprise or even a gasp. So, to say the Blade Breaker was unprepared for the splash and small spray of water at his feet was an understatement.

Eyes snapping wide open, he whipped his head. Sure enough, the spot where Byleth had been perched was vacant, and where there was a splash, there were bubbles.

“fuck.”

Rod tossed aside in a heartbeat, he leapt into action and all but threw himself into the water.

The commotion caused the two fishermen to turn, only to see a large splash as the mercenary dove after his small companion.

By the time they stood and rushed towards the edge of the pier, Jeralt surfaced the water with a gasp and with a single hand, hauled himself to and up the ladder. In his other hand was Byleth… sopping wet, sputtering, but blank faced as ever, held by the back of her shirt, dangling in the air like a kitten held by its scruff. Her small hands were still holding tight to the handle of her fishing rod-which was now curved and quivering with tension.

“Yer ‘lright there?” Both fishermen grabbed and pulled the mercenary up and atop the pier. When Jeralt finally stood on the pier, he was less than pleased and resembled a disgruntled hound. A puddle began forming at his feet.

So much for a peaceful moment.

Sighing. Jeralt checked his precious cargo… who was still hung in the air from his vice like grip on her shirt.

“We’re fine… I think.”

The fishermen looked from the father to the daughter, and one finally asked,

“Did the lass wanna go for a swim?”

A good question Jeralt wanted to ask for himself-with the added touch of shaking her for good measure.

As if to answer, the half-drowned kit that was his daughter lifted her arms and yanked her bending rod with all her might.

Without further ado, out of the sea sprang forth a massive eel.

Thrice her height and twice the girth of his arm, it thrashed something fierce and-as though the fates decided his near heart attack wasn’t enough-promptly thwacked him across the face in all of its slippery glory.

“Fuck!” Jeralt swore, staggering back from the fishy slap before falling onto his rear then back while little Byleth landed on his chest like a fish herself. Both father, daughter, and eel landed on the pier with a loud, wood rattling _thud _before the two fishermen.

“Wouldja look at that! Yer lass caught an Albinean conger!”

“Big bastard too… Look at the size it!”

As if that wasn’t clear… As if he didn’t know… As if he didn’t get a fucking face full of eel not three seconds ago.

“-can make some nice, smoked eel with this one.”

“Yeh don’t see an Albinean conger all that much in these parts.”

“Strong lil’ lass yeh got there. The conger is ‘bout twice her weight, ain’t it?”

“I’d say thrice, mate…”

While the fishermen became engrossed in evaluating Byleth’s catch, Jeralt stared at the cloudless sky and heaved a tired sigh. The weight of his drenched clothes felt heavier with every passing second.

By Seiros’s armored tits, this child was going to give him the grey hairs that a century didn’t. Couldn’t life give him a break and just let him fish in peace? Allow him the mercy of some reprieve? Let him just savor these rare, finer moments of-

“Papa.”

-fatherhood.

Darker blues covered his view of the lighter sky. Byleth stared down at him, hair matted against her little head, dripping seawater onto his face.

“Kid?” He couldn’t believe his ears. Surely, he had to be losing his mind. Perhaps he was finally growing senile.

She blinked, and as the seconds passed by, Jeralt’s hopeful heart slowly sank.

Then those small, cupid bow lips parted.

“Papa.”

There was no inflection, not a trace of feeling from that bell-like voice.

“Fish. I Fish.”

But to Jeralt Reus Eisner, it was music to his ears. Each word was enunciated as though she had practiced long before that very instant.

Rationally, he should have been puzzled, downright confounded by this moment. There hadn’t been signs Byleth would naturally progress to talking in such a manner. However, he should know by this point, uncommon was common with Byleth.

“Held tight. Like Papa said.” Bless her, his child was still holding the fishing rod. His child was finally talking. “Fished big fish.”

It took him a moment to process. Her words seeped slowly past the shock of this monumental moment, and then he understood.

All she had done was listen to her father’s instructions like any obedient child would. Only neither of them registered the possibility that she, for her first time, would nab something strong enough to give Byleth an impromptu swimming lesson.

Well… now no one could argue that his daughter was entirely void of personality, because it was clear her dedication was on another level…

That or she had not an inkling of self-preservation and a penchant for recklessness.

If that was the case, then the apple did not fall _that_ far from the tree. 

Whatever it was, his daughter was really making a habit of keeping him on his toes. Perhaps this was what all daughters are wont to do to their fathers.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Great job kid.” Eyes crinkled and mouth curved, Jeralt let out a snort and with both arms, lifted his daughter to a hover over his chest. “You caught us dinner.”

She blinked rapidly and shook her matted fringe from her eyes, causing the snort to turn into a laugh. The sound came out barking and rough, strained by the strange tightness crawling from his chest towards his throat.

It was no longer seawater trailing down his face anymore.

“Papa.” She looked more intent now, tilting her head. It was as though her eyes burrowed through his chest, controlling the tightness there that was smarting his eyes and choking his throat.

“Papa is sad?”

Hearing her call him as such… Be it a decade or four from now, he was certain he was never going to grow weary of it.

Did all fathers feel this way?

And those eyes… Beyond the listless veil, like a bloom born from the olden woods, those winter flower blues were alive and astute as her mother’s forest hued gaze once was. He no longer needed a smile to connect the threads and see the resemblance. Byleth was Sitri’s. Byleth was his. She was _theirs_. No curse, church, or deity was going to change that.

“ ’Course not, kid. Papa is just proud. So very proud.”

._._._._.

They had eel for dinner later in the evening, accompanied by the delighted fishermen and a gleeful cook. And when their bellies were full, with smoked eel promised for their journey by the friendly fishing pair, Jeralt sat by the bed and watched as Byleth slept. Bathed free of any salt, she was nestled into the sheets, fast asleep. Her chest rose and fell at a telltale pace of deep slumber while her petite body curled towards him.

He smiled, gently brushing the silken, teal blue locks from her face. She looked angelic with her lashes touching the fair cheeks of her cherub face. Tucking the blanket further up to her chin, his hand then traveled the seam until it found the small digits peeking from the blanket. Once only able to grab his pinky, now her hand was able to grasp an impressive total of two fingers.

To think hands as small as hers were able to catch them dinner. He could only imagine what she could and would do as the years go by, and by Seiros were they going by quickly. Soon, she’ll no longer hold onto him but a weapon. It was inevitable, no matter how he felt at the thought of such. The only thing he could do, what any father could do, in these circumstances is savor the moments of watching their child grow. Moments like these.

Byleth shifted. Her loose grasp on his fingers tightened, and she nestled closer to his seated form. It was as though she shared his sentiments.

It was oddly unfair how time seemed to pass by far too quickly in the moments he wished to savor and only slowed to a torturous still times of suffering.

Once upon a time, he had watched upon her slumber with a different feeling. One void of joy or peace, only fearing the possibility that the baby’s little chest would turn as still as her quiet heart. So many sleepless nights wrought with grief and dread, with silent tears and a heart so broken, his soul felt cold. He had questioned everything back then. His life had been nothing but questions. What was wrong with his child? What was Rhea hiding. Why was she hiding? Why did Sitri have to die? Did she die for a husk?

Presently, while he may not have the answers he sought, they no longer consumed every waking moment. They couldn’t. Not when, in those waking moments, this hand clung to him like an anchor would a ship in rough currents.

With great care and delicacy belying his war hardened form, Jeralt slowly pried his hand from her clutches but did not move himself from the bed. He reached for his pack, shuffling through its contents to pull out a worn, leather bound journal, a frayed quill, and a small bottle of ink.

In the days to come, moments as tender and sweet as this one might be spread apart to a sparse few. Such was the life he chose. So, he was diligent in preserving these memories through pen and paper.

> ** _20th Day of the Garland Moon. _ **
> 
> ** _Today was a perfect day. Byleth made it perfect. It began with us arriving at Nuvelle, in a quiet portside town… _ **

* * *

> Fanart of Jeralt and Babyleth <3
> 
> ひと時（風花雪月ファンアート [pic.twitter.com/WByq4A65OK](https://t.co/WByq4A65OK)
> 
> — 西木あれく (@aureolin24) [June 22, 2020](https://twitter.com/aureolin24/status/1275079520232472576?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20th of Garland Moon. In reality, that would be June 20th, Father's Day! While that day has already passed, it's never too late to appreciate daddos/father figures in your life. This chapter was originally supposed to be posted on that day, but it was honestly hard to feel satisfied despite the countless drafts I initially did -_-; Sorry for the delay as always, and for any grammar or formatting errors! I'll fix them when I have the time. (these days, time seems to be a luxury for me, sigh...)
> 
> This chapter was partially inspired by my personal experience with my dad. My father isn't perfect, but I'd like to think he's a good father because he accepts that the best thing he can do as a father is just try to understand and love his quirky child for who they are.
> 
> Next chapter will probably be about Byleth and her heart for animals.  
On a side note: Anyone else have some weird af RNG on FEH?  
As always, thank you for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a beta, but I try my best to read through my writing before posting. Apologies for any errors. I'll fix them if I see them.


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